


Recipes for Two

by RogueTranslator



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Activism, Activist Castiel (Supernatural), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, American Politics, Anti-Donald Trump, Berries, Bisexual Male Character, Books, Charlie Bradbury Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Winchester's First Time With a Man, Drama, Drunkenness, Falling In Love, Farmer Dean Winchester, First Dates, First Kiss, Flirting, Food, Gay Male Character, Getting to Know Each Other, Good Cook Dean Winchester, Graduate Student Castiel (Supernatural), Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Literature, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Protests, Reading Aloud, Recipes, Religion, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Self-Discovery, Self-Fulfillment, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Social Media, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 130,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26094604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueTranslator/pseuds/RogueTranslator
Summary: In many ways, Dean has a good life—a spacious house in the Shenandoah Valley, the thriving farm he inherited from his late father, a devoted brother who lives only an hour and a half away. But he’s missing the one thing he wants most of all: someone he can take care of and build a life with. Or, as Sam would put it, someone to cook for.He figures finding The One isn’t something he can make happen. But the cooking blog his Instagram followers have been clamoring for? He can do that.And if flirting with the nerdy far-left activist who found his food pictures brings in more engagement to his culinary creations…well, he tells himself that it’s all part of the social media game.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 438
Kudos: 447
Collections: The AO3 SPN Kink Meme, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Roasted Radish Linguine

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [theao3spnkinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/theao3spnkinkmeme) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Dean is single but not happily. He'd much rather have a partner he can love and cook for, but in the meantime he posts photos of his meals online, voicing his want for someone to share them with.
> 
> He gets two things in return:  
> 1) people encouraging him to post recipes and cooking videos and start up a food blog  
> 2) a random online stranger who compliments Dean more than his cooking skills and turns out to be hot according to his instagram and also hella talented in his own right, and his twitter is filled with activism stuff for politics and environment and human rights..  
> Naturally Dean develops a crush on the guy and they comment on each others stuff. A lot. Soon enough other random online strangers are shipping them. 
> 
> Eventually their paths cross because Dean shows up at one of the rallies/events Cas posted about. 
> 
> **do want** : references to social media posts and all that jazz. descriptive food stuff/Dean cooking said food would be a bonus. Up to you whether Dean realises he's flirting with Cas or not. 
> 
> **do not want** : porn

Dean was running late. There hadn’t been any radishes at the farmer’s market—“been a cold April,” one of the vendors had lamented—which meant that he’d had to drive to the grocery store next to the interstate, then back to his house on the outskirts of the city. In spite of the chill in the air, he was sweating by the time he got through his door.

Radishes, garlic, olive oil, linguine, lemon. Dean laid out the ingredients between the sink and stove, dabbed his forehead with a paper towel, and downed a glass of water. Of course, he could’ve just switched to another recipe instead of dashing around town. But judging by the number of exclamation points and emojis in his last text message, Sam was looking forward to trying his latest creation.

“Okay,” Dean said, propping up his phone on the counter. “Here we go.”

He wasn’t actually recording. This was just practice for his maiden video, so it was fine that he looked like he’d just run on a treadmill for half an hour.

“Tonight, we’re making roasted radish linguine. It’s quick, easy, and only calls for a few cheap ingredients. And it’s vegan, too. Now, about that last part—I like bacon as much as the next red-blooded American male, but my brother Sammy comes over for dinner on Sundays. He refuses to eat anything with a face, so I come up with something he’ll accept each week. But don’t worry: this dish will still fill you up and hit that pasta craving we all get once in a while.

“So, what do you need? Radishes, of course—with the tops, if you can find them that way. As you can tell from the sweat on my T-shirt, it took me a little effort to track those down.” Dean laughed nervously. He wasn’t sure if that joke would land. “Uh, light olive oil. Extra virgin olive oil. Garlic. A lemon. Chili flakes, oregano, and salt. That’s all!”

“Oh.” He picked up the box of pasta and shook it. “And linguine, obviously.”

He patted his neck and forehead dry again. The kitchen ceiling’s track lights blazed down on him. If a dry run made him this nervous, he wasn’t sure how he’d make it through the real thing. Maybe it was all a stupid idea.

“Okay,” Dean said, as he washed his hands. “First thing, preheat your oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. After you’ve done that, take your kitchen scissors and snip off the radish tops, then the little white stringy parts at the bottom. Put the tops aside for later. When your radishes are ready, rinse them well and let them dry on a kitchen towel.”

He continued the spadework, narrating the steps to his imaginary audience. Once the radishes were in the oven and the water for the pasta was heating, he took a break to turn on more of the lights around the house and put on the local news. He lay the remote down on the coffee table again when he saw, through the living room’s narrow windows, Sam’s car gliding up the driveway.

Dean walked out to the front porch and waved. His brother was wearing slacks and a jacket rather than his usual Sunday polo shirt and jeans, and his hair was slicked neatly behind his ears instead of casually tousled. As he crossed the front yard, he craned his neck to see into the neighbor’s property. They hadn’t changed a thing about it in years, but for Sam, curiosity was less a transitory impulse than an innate state of being.

“Hey.” Sam jogged up the steps, presenting to Dean a bottle of wine with a cream label and spidery lettering. “You said pinot gris was the pairing, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Dean relieved him of the bottle and closed the front door behind them. “What’s with the Brooks Brothers getup?”

“Ah, I had to do some things at the office today. And a meeting with an important new client in the afternoon, since she has to jet out of town tonight. Man, was she a character. I’ll have to tell you some stories over dinner.”

Hopefully, he wouldn’t. Dean could already feel his eyes glazing over. Sam’s work stories were rarely as enthralling as he seemed to believe.

“Smells interesting,” Sam said, hanging his jacket on one of the hooks in the entryway. “Is that the radishes?”

“Yeah.”

“Kind of smells like—” Sam’s nostrils flared.

“They’re rich in sulfurous compounds. One of the reasons they’re good for you. Antibacterial, antiviral, antifungal—”

“Okay, okay.” Sam held up his hands. “You know I’ll eat anything you cook, Dean. I just wouldn’t go with this dish if you were having a date over.”

“Not like there’s any danger of that.” Dean handed the wine back to Sam. “You mind pouring for us? I have to get started on the rest of the cooking.”

Sam took the bottle with a clipped assent, and Dean returned to his chopping board. For a while, there was only the tinkling of wine glasses and the flat of Dean’s knife smashing the garlic.

“You just have to get back out there,” Sam finally said. He placed Dean’s glass beside his free hand. “How many months has it been since Lisa moved out? At least six, right? You need to let yourself move on.”

Dean rolled his eyes. They’d split up last March, which meant that he’d been single for over a year. But Sam knew that.

“As you keep saying,” Dean muttered. He tossed the garlic cloves into the frying pan.

“Alright, don’t be like that. Come on, let’s toast. I could really use a drink after that client today. Why’re rich people so crazy, anyway?”

Dean turned around with his wine. “What’re we toasting to?”

“To you getting back in the game.” Sam canted his glass forward, but Dean pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head. “What? Okay, fine. Let’s toast to vegetables that smell like farts and your freedom to eat as many of those as you want. One of the benefits of being single.”

“Keep being a bitch, and you’ll leave here hungry.”

Sam sighed. “Call it tough love. I worry about you sometimes, you know? All alone at home?”

“Yeah? Well, move back in if you’re so worried. You’ll save enough money to make the commute worth it.”

Their father had willed the house to both of them when he’d died two years ago, back when Sam was in his final year of law school on the other side of the country. Lisa had just moved in when Dean drove him back home after graduation, and after a summer of the three of them living together, Sam joined a law firm in Washington, DC, about an hour and twenty minutes away. Ever since, he’d acted as if the house they’d grown up in was Dean’s and Dean’s alone. Sam liked to say that associate attorney salaries weren’t great, but they were apparently enough for his own apartment in Adams Morgan, which was—according to him—a desirable part of the city.

“I like where I am,” Sam was saying. “Besides, it’s not my company you need. We both know that.”

Dean glanced at his phone’s dark mirror, desperate to change the subject. “Hey, so remember the people on my Instagram food posts who wanted recipes? Well, I decided to start a food blog. A cooking blog.”

“Yeah?” Sam sipped his wine, his dedication to a toast apparently forgotten. “Good for you. You’re an amazing cook, Dean.”

“It’s just, uh—” Dean stirred the garlic. “I want to upload video recipes, too. I’m just nervous about talking on camera.”

“Really? Alright, practice on me. Pretend I’m your target audience. The adoring forty-something working mom who has a thing for wholesome, corn-fed Midwestern boys.”

“Not too much of a stretch for you, then.”

“Shut up, jerk.” Sam pressed his free hand into his hip and waited. “Come on, walk me through it.”

“Um…well, I’m heating the garlic in olive oil right now. On medium-low heat. As it’s heating, I’m breaking the cloves up into smaller pieces.” Dean jabbed his wooden spoon into the pan for emphasis. “Actually, the garlic’s that nice golden color now, so we’ll add in the chili flakes and oregano.”

Sam leaned in to sniff as Dean emptied the spice and herb to the pan. He sighed in approval.

“After those two, the radish tops we chopped earlier.” Dean presented the chopping board for Sam’s inspection.

“You can eat those?”

“Yeah, a lot of people don’t know that.” The pan sizzled as Dean stirred in the greens. “It’s too bad. They taste great and we already waste too much food as a society.”

Sam grinned. “You’re doing great, Dean.”

“Oh!” Dean shook out half of the pasta and eased it into the pot of bubbling water. “Yeah, definitely don’t wait too long to start your linguine. Otherwise, everything else might get cold waiting.”

“You okay? Need me to help with anything?”

“Uh, there’s a vegetarian antipasto plate in the fridge that I made this afternoon. You can put it on the table.”

“Ooh.” Sam abandoned his wine on the counter and bent into the refrigerator. “Dean, you’re too good to me.”

“Well, I like taking care of you.”

“What next?” Sam called, from the dining table.

“It’s just two courses.”

“No, what next in your cooking lesson?”

“Oh. Let’s see. The radish greens are done, so I’ve taken the pan off the heat. The radishes—” Dean opened the oven and checked them with a fork. “They’re finished, but they have to cool for a few minutes before I can handle them. Which is good, because the pasta has at least another five minutes.”

Sam nodded. He refilled his glass, then gestured to Dean.

“Top-up?”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, cheers.” Sam snorted as their glasses clinked. “Better late than never.”

“What’re we toasting to?”

“Your burgeoning influencer empire. And the other thing.”

“The other—” Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh.”

“Dean, you’re a kind, good-looking guy who cooks. That’s like, catnip to single women.”

“Since when do you care about dating so much, anyway? I can’t even remember the last time you brought someone over for me to meet.”

“I don’t. I’m focused on my career right now.”

“Ah. So you’re not even practicing your annoying preaching.”

“Dean, I can tell you’re not completely happy.” Sam leaned back into the countertop. “You still talk to Lisa at all?”

Dean tested the linguine. “Not really. I saw she had a baby recently.”

“Er…wait, really?”

“Last month. More than a year since the last—since she moved out.”

“Oh.” Sam blinked. “Wow, that’s a shock.”

Dean decided not to respond. He lifted the pot and drained the pasta.

“So, what’s left?”

“Now, we just put it together. Heat the frying pan again, add the linguine and a few spoonfuls of pasta water, fold in the radishes. Speaking of which—” Dean drew his paring knife from the block and hastily quartered the radishes. “Do me a favor, Sammy. Stir that pan gently while I do this.”

“Only if you stop calling me Sammy,” he said, though he did it anyway.

Dean dumped the radishes over the noodles, then drizzled in lemon juice and extra-virgin olive oil. He divided the pan between their two plates and carried them to the table. Sam picked up the bottle and his glass and followed behind.

“Okay,” Dean said, playing with the dimmer for the dining room chandelier. “Let’s just see…oh, I need my wine glass.”

“I got it,” Sam said. He set it down by Dean’s plate. “Right, my favorite part of our Sunday dinners. Waiting for you to take the perfect food picture for Instagram.”

“No one’s stopping you from eating,” Dean muttered.

Sam snatched Dean’s phone out of his hand.

“What the hell, Sammy?”

“How about I take the picture? Then you can pose with your creation.” Sam motioned to Dean’s chair. “Go on, sit.”

“The point’s the food, Sam. No one wants to see my face.”

“Dean, trust me. The people who’re following you for the food? You’ve got them in the bag. It’s time to expand your brand. _You’re_ the product.”

Dean instinctively covered his crotch. “You’re making me sound like a painted whore.”

“Welcome to social media, Dean. It’s all about appearances. How do you think the Kardashians made all their money?”

“Is that comparison supposed to reassure me?”

“If this doesn’t get you way more followers than a normal post, I’ll happily eat my words. Just—smile. Try to look relaxed.”

“I’m wearing a sweat-stained grey T-shirt. Is there any other way to look?”

“There you go.” Sam handed his phone back to him. “See? I told you. You look great. The food, too.”

Dean’s first instinct was to delete Sam’s misadventures from his phone’s memory and take a normal overhead picture of his linguine, with its pillowy peaks of pink radishes and strands of emerald green tops. But there was a disarming charm, a glimmering spontaneity, to the candid shot Sam had taken of him in defiance of his protests. Thanks to his frantic search for the radishes in the April drizzle, his hair was just messy enough to be jaunty, and his skewed smile, caught in a moment of brotherly repartee, set all of his face’s features at just the right angles. Most important of all, the perspective of the shot—the dish front and center, Dean with his arms outstretched in halfhearted dismay behind—drew the viewer’s eye to the food.

After a few tweaks to the focus and color settings, Dean decided to post it.

“Hashtag foodie,” Dean said, tapping at his phone. “Hashtag food porn. Hashtag…food.”

“Hashtag I’m starving,” Sam said. “Hashtag hurry up.”

“Eat,” Dean insisted. “Seriously, eat before it gets cold.”

Sam spun the linguine around his fork and speared a radish with the tines. His eyes widened as he chewed.

“Good?”

“So good,” Sam moaned. “Hashtag foodgasm.”

“I think I’ll pass on that one.” Dean put down his phone. “Alright, Sam. If this post crashes and burns, it’s on you.”

They ate, passing the antipasto board and pinot gris back and forth as Sam recounted his afternoon with his firm’s newest potential client, much to Dean’s chagrin. Dean shook his calf against the table leg, eyeing his phone, but resisted his urge to check the reception to his post. Sam finished his pasta first and lamented that there wasn’t enough for seconds.

“I can make you something else if you didn’t get enough.”

“Nah.” Sam sat back and patted his midsection. “Just complimenting you.”

“You want this on the rotation, then?”

“Hell yes. Hey, I wonder—” Sam fished his phone out of his slacks. “Let’s see how many likes your post’s gotten.”

“Oh, God. I can’t look.”

“What’s the big deal? Haven’t your followers seen your face before?”

“I mean, sort of. There’s my profile photo, but it’s one of those artsy ones with sunglasses, lens flare—”

“Holy crap,” Sam interrupted. “You passed 1000 followers? When’d that happen?”

“Couple weeks ago. My chocolate pie post tipped me over, I think. ‘Find yourself someone who looks at you the way pie looks at me.’”

“Damn, Dean. You became an actual Instagram person when I wasn’t looking. Let’s see….”

Dean wiped his mouth with his napkin, held his breath. Sam furrowed his brow.

“What?”

“Uh, well, you have 94 likes on the post already. That’s pretty good engagement, I’d say. It’s been less than an hour. Comments, too. Want me to read them?”

“Actually—”

“Of course you do. Let’s see…. ‘You’re so cute! Heart emoji.’ ‘Oh no he’s hot…fire emoji, heart eyes emoji.’” Sam cleared his throat. “‘DADDY’—that one’s in all caps. No emoji.”

Dean sighed. “Anyone say anything about the food? I said I’d post the recipe on my blog tonight. They’re the ones who said they wanted me to start one up.”

“Um…. 17 minutes ago: ‘Looks tasty. Your pasta looks delicious too. Wink emoji.’”

“Why’s everyone so damn thirsty on the internet?”

“Huh, looks like he has a few replies.”

Dean blinked. “He?”

“Oh, I’m just guessing based on what people are saying. ‘Fellas, it is gay.’ ‘The gay crossover I never knew I needed.’”

“That’s…interesting.”

“Huh, I guess this guy’s someone. Lots of replies. ‘At Castiel: so this is what you do when you aren’t at a protest? Crying laugh emoji.’ ‘At Castiel: better make sure he supports Abolish ICE before you stan lmao.’”

Dean stood and began clearing the table. “Whatever. Maybe this dude will bring in some of his followers who like food pictures.”

“What?” Sam returned his phone to his pocket and helped Dean carry the dishes back to the kitchen. “No, Dean, this is such a great opportunity.”

“Come again?”

“I looked at his profile. He has five times as many followers as you.”

“And?”

“So, you know. Flirt with him a little.”

The dirty plate wobbled in Dean’s hand; he nearly dropped it.

“What?”

“People love stuff like that. You could get hundreds of new followers. Pander a little—I’m not saying you should post full-on thirst traps, but—”

“What the hell, Sammy? Why’re you so intent on pimping me out tonight?”

Sam grinned. “I’m not. Although, I looked at a few of his pictures. He’s pretty hot. I’m straight, but—I don’t know. If he hit on me in a bar in Dupont Circle, I’d consider tasting the rainbow. If you know what I mean.”

“Okay.” Dean yanked the dishes from Sam’s hands and packed them into the dishwasher. “You’ve obviously had too much wine. Just sleep here; you still have tons of clothes in your room.”

“I’m fine to drive, Dean. Why’re you so uptight, anyway? Flirting with a guy doesn’t make you gay; I do it all the time.”

Dean frowned. “Give me your keys. Go sit down on the couch. I’ll finish cleaning up.”

Sam handed him his keys petulantly. “I can help.”

“Sit down.” Dean grabbed him by the shoulders and walked him to the living room sofa. “Jesus, when’d you become such a lightweight?”

“I’m not drunk,” Sam whined. “I’m just fed up with my emotionally repressed brother who sublimates his need for someone he can take care of into flirtatious descriptions of food on Instagram.”

“Those’re pretty big words for someone over the legal limit,” Dean shot back.

Sam groaned. He leaned back into one of the sofa’s armrests and dangled his legs over the other one.

“I might just work from here tomorrow. I have my laptop and briefs with me. Good thing that loony old woman only has my office number.”

“I still can’t believe she helped herself to a handful of your ass. You’re right, rich people really live in their own world.”

“No, Dean. This is their world. We just live in it.”

He reached for the remote and started flicking through the channels. Dean started the dishwasher, cleaned the stove, scrubbed the counters and the bottom of the sink, and swept the kitchen floor. By the time he’d finished, Sam had drifted off in front of a blandly scored bird documentary.

Dean would wake him up and make him brush his teeth eventually, but he’d waited long enough to post his recipe. He’d read somewhere that consistent content was vital to gaining an online following. If nothing else, he could manage that.

Dean walked to his office and switched on his desk’s architect lamp. Through the window, he could just make out the neat lines of the backyard—the low, umber-stained cedar fence around the herb garden that he and his father had put up when he was fourteen; the freshly tilled rows in the vegetable patch waiting for the winter’s last frost. Dean smiled as he opened his laptop. Knowing that Sam was peacefully asleep in the room below suffused him with warmth and ease.

“Holy shit,” Dean mumbled. He’d just brought up his Instagram for the first time since his post. He had 287 new followers. “What the….”

He clicked on the picture Sam had taken of him at their dining table. The top comment was from Castiel. It had 322 likes.

_Looks tasty. Your pasta looks delicious too. 😉_

Who the hell was this guy?

Dean clicked through to his profile. @Castiel, Castiel Kline, 992 posts, 6,912 followers, 477 following. Activist. Democratic Socialist. I work on my dissertation in my spare time. No human is illegal. #AbolishICE #GreenNewDeal #MedicareForAll

Dean raised his eyebrows. He wasn’t a Republican by any stretch of the imagination—he considered himself pretty liberal for a born and bred Kansan, and the Trump signs along his rural road in Frederick County filled him with secondhand embarrassment—but this guy seemed…well, far left was probably an understatement.

His profile picture, in which he stared off at something in the near distance, was taken from a three-quarter view. He had lightly tanned skin; a short, delicate nose; and brilliant blue eyes that sloped down kindly at the outer edges of his face. Above it all, he wore a mane of medium-length, soft-looking, chestnut-brown hair that stuck out carelessly at odd angles.

Dean felt himself swallow. Sam was right. This guy _was_ pretty hot.

Wait, what?

Dean panicked and closed the tab. He stared at his browser window, which now displayed the top of his cooking blog.

The recipe, right. Roasted Radish Linguine. He still had to post it. That was the whole reason he’d sat down, after all.

Everything else could wait until later. The next morning, preferably. There were a few things Dean needed to sleep on.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Roasted Radish Linguine

_An easy, light vegan pasta bursting with color and flavor. Perfect for those dreary days at the start of spring!_

Cook time: 30 minutes

Serves 2

2 small bunches of radishes, including tops*

2 teaspoons light olive oil**

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling

4 garlic cloves

½ teaspoon chili flakes

1 teaspoon dried oregano

8 ounces dried linguine

Juice of 1 lemon

Salt

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Using kitchen scissors, snip off the radish tops below the leaves and set aside. Then, snip off the white, stringy part of the root and discard. Wash the radishes and let dry. Next, wash the radish greens thoroughly—they can be gritty. (I fill a medium mixing bowl with cold water and let them sit while I do other things. The dirt falls to the bottom and you only have to swirl and rinse the greens a little bit after that.) Drain the greens and chop roughly.

Put on a large pot of salted water to boil. (I use about 1 ½ tablespoons of salt for 8 ounces of pasta. It sounds like a lot, but as Mark Twain said, “The secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.”)

While the water is heating, coat the radishes with the light olive oil and sprinkle with a pinch of salt. If the radishes are of different sizes, cut them into roughly equal-sized pieces, about 1 inch in diameter, first. Lay them out evenly on a baking sheet and roast in the oven until a fork pierces through with little resistance, about 20-25 minutes.

Smash the garlic cloves with the side of your knife, then peel. Heat the extra-virgin olive oil in a frying pan over medium-low heat and add garlic, sautéing and breaking up the cloves with a wooden spoon until garlic has softened, about 3 minutes. Mix in chili flakes and oregano, then radish greens. Cook until the radish greens have wilted, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat.

Once the radishes in the oven are almost finished, add the linguine to the boiling water. Cook until just under al dente, about 1-2 minutes less than package instructions. While the pasta is cooking, remove the baking sheet from the oven and let the radishes cool until they can be handled, then slice them into quarters lengthwise. Drain the linguine, reserving some pasta water. Return the frying pan to medium heat and add linguine, a few teaspoons of pasta water, and radishes. Mix everything together, remove from heat, and toss with lemon juice and more extra-virgin olive oil. Serve immediately.

*If you can’t find radishes with tops, that’s okay! Use about a cup of another leafy vegetable, like spinach or arugula, or half a cup of an herb like flat-leaf parsley or basil. This dish is also just fine with radishes alone.

**You can use extra-virgin olive oil for roasting the radishes, but you might have to lower the oven temperature to 375 degrees and let them cook longer. Depending on your oven and oil, EVOO can start smoking at around 400 degrees.


	2. Spicy French Fries, Minted Peas, and Morels with Butter and Tarragon

It was Monday morning, and Dean woke up early out of habit. He didn’t have to at this time of year; there was work to do, sure, but spring on the Winchester and Sons Organic Berry Farm was relatively mellow. Mowing, pruning, fertilizing, mulching, checking irrigation—it was all hard work, but nothing Dean couldn’t handle by sundown each day even if he snuck in a few extra winks of sleep. Maybe he just wanted to retain his bragging rights to only needing four hours.

He stretched in his bed and blinked at the dark windowpanes. He still had some mornings when he awoke bewildered at what he saw—when he was unsettled by the high walls and vaulted ceiling of the farmhouse’s master bedroom; when he half-expected to walk past the open bathroom door and see his father washing his face with his thick, calloused hands. Dean had been the head of this house and the proprietor of its surrounding lands for over two years, and there were still moments when he felt wrong for sleeping where he did.

It would all fall into place once he found a wife. That’s what he kept telling himself. Someone to wake up next to; someone to share the fruits of his labor with. Someone to cook for each night, until they were old and sitting on the back deck together, watching the sun set under the Appalachians.

With a wistful sigh, Dean heaved himself upright and lumbered to the bathroom. He pissed, washed the sand out of his eyes with hot water, and dried his face and hair. He glanced longingly at the shower, but there was no point to that when he’d just be covered in sweat and soil in an hour’s time.

The house was cold; if the almanac had been correct, the previous night had been the last spring frost. Dean stopped in the hallway to turn the heat on. The thermostat was next to Sam’s bedroom, and Dean could hear him snoring softly through the door. He grinned and continued down the stairs to the kitchen.

“Hey, Crowley,” Dean said, as he passed the cat bed. Crowley’s shiny black ears flicked in response, though he didn’t stir otherwise. He’d always been more of a night owl.

Dean started the coffeemaker and sat down with his phone. He skimmed the front pages of _The Washington Post_ , then _The Winchester Star_. Crowley finally—grudgingly—stood, arched his back, and leapt onto the couch, where he curled up beside Dean’s thigh.

“Where were you last night?” Dean scratched Crowley’s side, closed the news, and brought up his cooking blog. “Hard at work catching mice, I hope—”

The smile on Dean’s face faded into slack-jawed surprise once his blog loaded. He had fourteen new comments, twelve of them on the recipe for Roasted Radish Linguine he’d posted before going to bed. It was only the third recipe he’d posted, and going from three to seventeen comments overnight was something of an out-of-body experience.

“I’m almost too nervous to look, Crowley,” Dean murmured. “What if they hated it?”

He held his breath and scrolled down to the comments. They were uniformly either positive reactions or questions about substitutions or proportions, and Dean answered the latter tentatively, wondering whether he was providing too little or too much detail.

Once he’d made his way through them all, he walked to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He breathed in the aroma, sighing with contentment. In the front yard, the first light of morning had descended onto the dewy treetops, kissing the pine needles and the new oak leaves.

After a few more sips, Dean topped himself up and returned to the warm spot on the couch. He’d tended to his blog. It’d be negligent to not check his Instagram.

“You’re looking at a bona fide social media sensation, Crowley,” Dean said. He clicked his phone’s Instagram app. “At least by Northern Shenandoah Valley standards.”

He’d girded himself for what was to come, but was still taken aback when he saw the actual figures. His number of new followers had doubled overnight, and his notifications had swelled to an unmanageable amount. Again, Dean clicked into his most recent post. He stared at Castiel’s comment. It was at the top, far above any of the others in likes and replies.

 _Looks tasty. Your pasta looks delicious too._ _😉_

He scratched his neck. At this point, it would be rude _not_ to write something back. This guy had drawn more eyeballs to Dean’s food pictures in one night than Dean’s own content had over the entire year to date. He clicked Reply.

 _@Castiel Oh, it tastes incredible. Take my word for it._ _😉_

Despite the recent infusion of coffee, Dean’s throat suddenly felt parched. He dithered his thumb over his phone’s screen before finally tapping Post.

At once, he felt the familiar flutter of anxiety in his chest. He pressed his phone dark and lay it face down on the coffee table.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean murmured. “What the hell am I getting myself into, Crowley?”

The cat flicked his ears again, as disinterested as ever.

Dean polished off his coffee, staring out at the narrow road that led through the backyard gate and to the farm beyond. He mentally reviewed his tasks for the day. He was so engrossed in optimizing his route through the berry beds that he only noticed Sam behind him when the other end of the couch bounced with his weight.

“Hey, Crowley,” Sam croaked. “You know, he was scratching and meowing at my door around midnight. I almost got up to let him in…then I remembered he isn’t allowed anymore.”

Dean shrugged. “Once he started depositing dead mice in my bed in the middle of the night, I decided all the bedrooms are off-limits. He knows the rules. Probably thought you didn’t, though.”

Sam scratched between Crowley’s ears. “Dean’s just a big meanie, isn’t he?”

Crowley yawned appreciatively; Dean rolled his eyes and picked up his phone.

“There any more coffee?”

“Yeah, plenty. I’ve only had a cup.”

Sam dragged himself to the coffeemaker, stretching his arms up to the ceiling as he went. Without knowing entirely why, Dean opened his Instagram again.

 _@WinchesterBerries What if I don’t want to take your word for it?_ _😛_

Dean swallowed. He hadn’t expected to receive a reply this quickly. On the other hand, considering how soon he’d gone back to check the post, he’d clearly been hoping for one.

“Dean?” Sam said.

“Huh?”

Sam peeked around the doorway to the hall. “I asked if you’re working today. And whether this is all you have.” He shook the carton of half and half.

“Yeah, you know I’m not into the whole nut milk thing.” Dean looked down at his phone again. “And of course I’m working, Sam. A farm doesn’t run itself.”

“Alright, sheesh. I was just going to say that I could help you out today.”

“Really? Don’t you have your own shit to do?”

“Nah, I’m technically on vacation all this week. I had to take it, since it’s been piling up for almost a year now.” Sam’s spoon clinked against the walls of his coffee mug. “Oh, you mean the work I brought along. I just figured I’d get a head start on a few things coming down the pike.”

Dean scowled. “If you’re on vacation, you should be relaxing. Don’t do unpaid labor for them.”

“That’s just it, Dean.” Sam returned to the couch and sank into the cushions. “I’m saying I’d rather do unpaid labor for you.”

“Like the good old days?” Dean said, with a wry smile.

“Well, we were technically both doing unpaid labor for Dad back then.”

“You know what I mean. The farm. Winchester and Sons.” Dean fumbled his phone, but caught it before it fell to the hardwood.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah.” Sam sipped his coffee. “You’re all…tetchy.”

Dean considered dissimulating, but he knew that Sam would put two and two together the next time he checked Dean’s Instagram—which, given his proud and prominent role in all this, was bound to be sooner rather than later. Besides, with the heightened stakes from all the new attention, he could really use some advice.

“Er…it’s that guy. Castiel. The one you told me to flirt with.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So—I mean, I did. Sort of. But then he flirted back.”

“Okay,” Sam said dully.

“Yeah. Anyway, what do I do now?”

Sam scrunched up his face. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Dean, is this serious?”

“Forget it.” Dean stood up. “I need more coffee.”

“Dean,” Sam called. “I didn’t mean—Dean.”

“And breakfast. Need to fuel up for the day.”

“Dean,” Sam said, softly now. He’d followed Dean into the kitchen and was leaning his hip into the island, his phone in hand. “Calm down, okay? Sorry, I forgot how serious you are about this whole social media thing.”

“It’s more that I don’t want to make an ass of myself in front of all these new people. What if he gets the wrong idea? Don’t know about you, but it’s not like I have a lot of experience flirting with guys.”

“Uh, I mean, it’s not that complicated…huh.” Sam peered at his phone.

“What?”

“Just reading what you wrote. You saucy little minx.” Sam chuckled. “Just write back something about how he’ll have to go to your blog and try the recipe if he doesn’t want to take your word for it. That’s a neat little dodge that ties things up nicely. Refocuses your food without there being any hurt feelings. He’ll get the hint.”

Dean considered that. “Okay, yeah. That makes sense.”

 _@Castiel Then I guess you’ll just have to go to my blog and try the recipe for yourself, won’t you?_ _😛_

“Wow, he has even more followers on Twitter. Over 11k.”

Dean slid his phone back into his pocket. “Don’t stalk the guy, Sam.”

“I’m just curious. Looks like he lives in DC.” Sam’s thumb flew over his phone’s screen. “Oh, wow. He is _not_ a Trump fan.”

“Alright, put that away. You want French toast for breakfast? I made my orange huckleberry bread yesterday.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Dean lifted one of his cast-iron pans from its hook and set it on the range.

“You want help with anything?”

“It’s French toast, Sammy. I can handle French toast on my own.”

“Well, if you’re not going to put me to work, I might just keep creeping on this Castiel dude. I want to know how he found you.”

“Oh, I’ll be putting you to work all day. I hope you remember how to mulch a blueberry bush, city boy.”

“As if I’d forget.” Sam refilled his coffee and sat on one of the island’s chairs. “How’s the farm doing, anyway?”

There it was. The question that was Sam’s obligation once every month or so. The question Dean dreaded. No matter how casually Sam brought it up each time, Dean never felt like he could be completely honest. He didn’t mind the family business, but part of him still resented being left to shoulder it alone—by their father and especially by Sam.

“It’s doing okay. I filed last year’s taxes a few weeks ago. Claimed a loss.”

“Wait, really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dean shrugged. “Every farm has a loss year now and then. I sort of knew it would happen when I upped wages. It wasn’t just that, though. The blueberry market’s getting glutted, and a lot of the other berries we have are kind of niche. More risk, there.”

“Yeah, we can blame Henry for that.”

Henry was their grandfather. This had been his house and farm, and he’d willed it to his estranged son, their father, when he’d died seventeen years ago. Dean hadn’t ever met the man, but John described him as both a traditionalist and an eccentric. That dichotomy was plain to see in the pairing of a 200-year-old Federal brick farmhouse with a quarter section of heirloom American berries—Virginia strawberries, black cap raspberries, youngberries, downy serviceberries, golden currants, and more—that very few other growers in the region bothered with any longer.

“Yeah, well, I think we’ll do better this year.” Dean lay the first slices of French toast in the pan; the butter sizzled. “I’m trying some edible flowers in the backyard beds.”

“Edible…flowers?”

“Yeah, like, you see them in fancy restaurants. Nasturtium, crimson beebalm, pineapple sage. A lot of the gourmet places downtown can’t get enough of them.”

“Downtown Winchester?” Sam scoffed.

“Yes, Sam, downtown Winchester. We do have nice restaurants outside the Beltway, you know. This isn’t a complete hick town.”

“I didn’t—Dean, I don’t mean—”

“I know, Sammy. Sometimes you just can’t help yourself.” Dean flipped the French toast. “Anyway, the main thing is that the business is stable enough to cover minor losses for a while. A lot of farms aren’t as lucky as us.”

We, us—Dean was still in the habit of using those terms, even if in practicality the family business was a one-man enterprise. He sighed as he plated Sam’s breakfast.

Sam picked up his fork and knife. He grinned. “Thanks, Dean.”

“Eat up,” Dean said, sitting down beside him. “It’s seven. We should already be packing up the truck.”

“I know, I know. We've got work to do.”

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Their morning was productive, notwithstanding a false start when Sam overzealously mulched a row of berries with what looked like four inches of pine needles. He found his footing quickly, though. Dean praised him judiciously, teased him mercilessly, and at times it felt like they were back in the years before he’d gone off to Stanford.

Work on the farm was quiet and—even when the fields were filled with the chatting of summer pickers or the din of heavy machinery—almost unremittingly solitary. Dean had plenty of time to think each day. Today, he found himself thinking about Castiel.

Part of it was greed, he had to admit. The crush of new followers he’d brought to Dean’s humble online presence was a rush, and Dean didn’t want it to end. Maybe Sam was right that playing along with his advances would keep the ride going; maybe not. But it wasn’t as if it cost Dean anything to fluff the guy’s ego a little bit.

There was something else, though: the bottom-falling-out sensation in his diaphragm, the frisson of curiosity at his nape, when he’d seen Castiel’s picture. That feeling confused him. Not because he didn’t know what it was; he’d been with enough beautiful women in his life to know how his body responded to things it liked the look of. He was confused because—well, Castiel was a dude, and one he’d never even met on top of that. Dean wasn’t averse to inspecting the aesthetic qualities of other men, but his appreciation for ripped arms or a chiseled jaw wasn’t what this was.

Attraction.

Dean sighed and scattered the rest of the mulch over the last blueberry in the row. Clearly, Sam was right. Being single for this long was screwing with his head.

“Sammy!” Dean roared. Sam perked up from further down the slope, where he was removing the winter straw cover from the strawberries.

“Yeah?”

“You hungry yet?”

They left the truck in the farm’s driveway, choosing to walk the quarter mile up the yard and back to the house. Dean made a club sandwich for himself and a vegetable and hummus sandwich for Sam. It was sunny and a balmy 63 degrees, so they took their lunch to the deck. Dean’s phone felt heavy in his pocket as he sat down.

“When’re you sowing the, um, edible flowers?” Sam said, after they’d eaten for a while in comfortable silence.

“This week, probably.”

Sam wiped his mouth with a napkin. “What’re you looking at?”

“Uh.” Dean glanced up from his phone. “I just thought I’d see whether Castiel responded to what I wrote.”

Sam’s jaw twitched. He gave Dean an inscrutable look.

“What? What’s that look for?”

“Did he?”

“Not—not yet.”

“Ah.” Sam drank from his water bottle. “You sound disappointed, Dean.”

“No. I don’t really care, actually.”

Sam sat back in his deck chair. “Of course not.”

“I don’t.”

As if to immediately put lie to his words, Dean’s thumb pulled up his Instagram app again.

“Oh, hang on. He’s tagged me. Sammy, he’s tagged me.”

“That’s nice, Dean.”

Dean clicked on the notification. There, he saw the face from last night in motion for the first time.

“Hey, guys,” Castiel said, into his phone’s jittery camera.

Sam turned to Dean. “Wait, is that—”

“Shh,” Dean hissed.

“Um, so, I’m in my kitchen—notice the layer of dust on most surfaces—and I’ve tried Dean’s recipe like he said I should.” His camera swung around to reveal a scorched, still-smoking mass of noodles in a stainless-steel pan. “As you can see, I’m not much of a culinarian. I, um, take full responsibility for this disaster. Dean’s food looks wonderful when he makes it. This is why my diet consists solely of delivery pizza and frozen burritos, I guess.”

Dean snorted. He read the text below the video.

 _Guys, I think I messed up._ 😅 _Maybe @WinchesterBerries could give me some private cooking lessons? #chefmode_

“Dean.”

“Huh?”

Sam was sitting up again, facing him. “You going to share with me what’s put that shit-eating grin on your face?”

Dean started the video again and passed his phone to Sam.

“How is it possible to burn pasta?” Sam said, once it was over.

“Oh, like you’re such a good cook?”

“No, I—” Sam squinted at him. “It was a joke. I wasn’t criticizing.”

“It was cute, Sam. Lay off him.”

“Okay,” Sam said, giving him the inscrutable look from before. He handed Dean back his phone. “So, what now?”

“What now?”

“Yeah. You going to keep rolling with this…I don’t know what to call it. Online bromance?”

“Er, I don’t know. I don’t know what to say next.” Dean clicked the heart icon underneath the video. “I’ll ‘like’ his post for now.”

 _Maybe I can spend the afternoon coming up with something clever to say,_ Dean thought.

“Yeah,” Sam said, as if he were hearing Dean’s internal monologue. “You know, I didn’t expect he’d sound like that.”

“Me neither. I thought he’d be, uh, softer.”

“Softer?”

“Yeah, you know. More ‘delicate.’” Dean cleared his throat. “Fey.”

Sam glowered at him. “Why, because you think he’s gay? Jesus, Dean, you’re so prejudiced sometimes, I swear.”

“You just said you didn’t expect him to sound like that!”

“I meant that he sounds like a chain smoker or something. Not—” Sam shook his head. “Do you even know any gay men, Dean?”

Dean picked up his empty plate and walked back to the house. “Fuck off, Sammy. Don’t try to paint me as some kind of bigoted asshole.”

“I’m not—” Sam followed him in, closing the French door behind him with a bang. “That’s not what I’m saying, Dean. I’m just saying that you might not even realize you’re thinking in stereotypes. Heck, we all do it. You just have to—”

Dean threw his plate into the sink, where it reverberated sonorously against the porcelain. Judging by the look on Sam’s face, they were both surprised that nothing had broken.

“You know, I get pretty tired of you acting like you’re better than me all the time.”

Sam gaped at him. “What?”

“See, I get that you think I’m your dumb brother who never even finished high school, and maybe you think I don’t notice when you use your ‘time to teach poor stupid Dean about the world’ voice, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop looking down your nose at me. And retrieve the stick that’s lodged up your ass while you’re at it.”

He placed his plate in the dishwasher and held out his hand for Sam’s without making eye contact. Sam passed it to him, but held on when Dean tried to take it.

“Dean, I’m—I’m really sorry. I didn’t know I was making you feel that way, I swear.”

Dean sighed. “It’s okay, Sammy.”

“And that isn’t how I think about you. Not even close. I look up to you, Dean. So much. I mean, you spent years of your life picking berries so I could stay in school. I can’t describe how much that means to me.”

Dean dried his eyes with the back of his hand. “I appreciate that, Sam.”

“Anytime. You’re my hero, Dean. Even if you say…un-politically correct things sometimes.”

“If you won’t let go of that, can you at least let go of your plate? I want to start the dishwasher before we go out again.”

Sam laughed and loosened his grip, and Dean moved things around in the dishwasher so that the last few things would fit. When he pressed start and straightened up again, Sam was peering at his phone.

“Ready to get back to it? Those strawberries aren’t going to clear themselves.”

“Almost. I’m just looking at Castiel’s Twitter. Getting a feel for his personality.”

“Why?” Dean said warily.

“I’m trying to come up with how you should reply to his video. Something he’ll find funny.”

“Christ, Sammy, give it a rest. It’s like you’re obsessed with this guy.”

“No, it’s just—” Sam looked out the kitchen window and smiled. “This is the first time I’ve seen you put yourself out there since Lisa.”

“Whoa. You can stop right there with whatever you’re implying.”

“Not—not like that. But you coming out of your shell, making new friends—it’s a good thing, Dean. And he clearly knows a lot of people. Maybe you’ll meet someone through him. Someone special.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Let’s just go. We’re losing daylight.”

“Wait, I’ve got it. Write: ‘How about you watch the cooking video I post tonight first. If you still need help after that, we can figure something out. Wink emoji.’”

“I’m posting a cooking video tonight? Since when?”

“You said you wanted to start uploading video recipes, right?”

“Yeah, eventually. Not literally today.”

“This is an opportunity, Dean. You should take it. His burnt pasta video got 800 likes in less than an hour. There’s a lot of attention on you two right now; who knows if it’ll last.” Sam flicked his eyes to Dean’s pocket meaningfully. “Well?”

Dean exhaled. “Alright, I guess. But you’re helping me.”

 _@Castiel Watch the cooking video I post tonight. If you still need help after that, maybe I can teach you a few tricks._ _😉_

Sam was grinning when Dean looked up again. “Happily.”

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

They toiled in the fields until just past seven, by which time the wind in the valley had regained some of its bite and the sky above the hills was a dusky purple. In eleven hours of work, they’d mulched enough pine and cleared enough straw to feather every chicken coop in Frederick County. John Winchester would’ve been proud.

“Sorry for keeping us out there for so long,” Dean said. They were driving the truck back up to the house, taking the gravel road slowly.

“Nah,” Sam said, though he sounded thirsty and exhausted. “I told you, I’m off this week. I’m at your disposal.”

“Thing is, I’m just trying to stay ahead of the curve.” Dean pressed the button for the garage door. “Without you, or Dad, or even Lisa, it’s—it’s tough. Figured I’d use you while I have you.”

“Yeah, I understand. You don’t want to hire more people?”

“Not sure I can afford to hire any more people year-round. Besides, we always have enough labor during picking season. This time of year’s just weird.”

Dean glanced at Sam. He could practically see him biting his tongue through his cheek. Dean had told him enough times over the last year to stop offering to “help out”—meaning money.

“I could—I mean, I’m not hurting—”

“No, Sam.”

Dean closed the garage door. They trudged across the driveway and up the rise to the side door, where Sam let Dean wash off at the mudroom sink first. Whatever the manifold other differences in their personalities, they were both as stubborn as each other.

Once he’d cleaned up, Dean gathered a few logs from the pile in the corner. Crowley wound his way through his legs, his sleek tail raised to the ceiling.

“Alright,” Sam said, drying his hands. “You cook, I’ll hold the camera?”

Dean laughed. “Really? Because I thought it’d be the other way around.”

“I’m more just making sure you’re not trying to get out of it.”

“I said I’d do it.” Dean stacked the logs on the andiron. “Just let me start this.”

Once he’d stoked the fire, Dean showered, put on a white T-shirt and blue jeans, and strapped on an apron from the hook on the pantry door. Sam smirked at him from behind his phone.

“What?”

“No, nothing. Let’s just hope Castiel finds aprons sexy.”

“I’m not trying to look sexy, Sam. Aprons are practical.” Dean patted his hands dry with the dishcloth on his shoulder. “Why would I give a crap about what some dude finds sexy, anyway?”

“No reason.” Sam tapped something on his screen. “Alright, should I start rolling?”

“I’ll do all the prep work first.”

“Prep work?”

“Yeah. No one needs to watch me slice potatoes into strips or wash mushrooms. They want the condensed version. Quick and easy.”

“‘Quick and easy.’ Wasn’t that your code name for one of your ‘girlfriends’ in high school?”

“Shut up. Go take a shower; you stink. I’ll be ready once you’re done.”

Sam strolled off obediently, and Dean got to work. He washed and cut the potatoes and set them on paper towels to dry. He submerged the morels he’d picked up at the farmer’s market in water, shaking loose any dirt or small insects lodged within their pits and ridges. He walked out to the herb garden and tore off big fistfuls of spearmint and tarragon. When Sam walked back into the kitchen, still toweling off his hair, Dean had just put the finishing touches on his mise en place.

“Wow,” Sam said.

“Right?” Dean pressed his hands to his hips and grinned. “Rachael Ray, eat your heart out.”

“I was thinking you should go for more of a Nigella vibe.”

“So, what? English accent? Cleavage?”

Sam coughed. “Something like that. Okay, let me just get this situated…here we go! Hey Dean, what’re we having for dinner tonight?”

Dean glanced between Sam’s face and his phone camera. He gulped. “Um, well, you asked for the comfort food I always make you. So, we’re doing spicy French fries, minted peas, and buttered morel mushrooms with tarragon.”

Sam smiled and gave him a thumbs up.

“Yeah, so, here’s what you need….”

Dean talked through the ingredients and the recipe. The remaining preparation consisted mostly of mixing; the only major consideration was the potatoes’ long cook time. Once they were in the oven, Sam stopped recording, and Dean popped open two beers. They sat at opposite ends of the couch. Crowley, unimpressed, watched them from his spot in front of the hearth.

“What’re you reading?” Sam said, once the eight-p.m. show had gone to commercial.

“Reading?” Dean blushed. “Oh, uh…I’m just scrolling through Castiel’s Instagram.”

“And I’m the obsessed one,” Sam said, under his breath.

“I’m just trying to see what makes him so great, alright? He has a lot of followers for a non-celebrity.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah.”

Dean ignored him. “He’s got lots of pictures from protests. Looks like his Twitter header’s from the Women’s March.”

“There’s basically a protest for or against something every day in DC. Especially now, with Trump.”

“You ever been to one?”

“Um…no, actually. Honestly, I should. I don’t have the excuse of being a first-year associate running on no sleep anymore.”

“Weird to think how close DC is to here. It seems like a totally different world.”

“Eh, it’s not as exciting as it looks. You should visit me more, Dean. I can finally take you around the city properly.”

“Yeah, in all my free time.” Dean sniffed; the potatoes were about halfway done. “Crap, I need to start the other stuff.”

Sam followed him to the kitchen with his phone held out like a beacon. “Yup, we’re rolling.”

“We are? Okay, well, I’m about to switch the fries around and start the other two courses.” Dean tied his apron, motioned to the oven. “Let’s get started.”

He sautéed the morels, then buttered and minted the peas. When the kitchen timer went off, he wrangled the fries into the gaping cherry-red serving bowl and tossed them with the spices. When Sam motioned with his hands excitedly, Dean gathered the three dishes together on the island for a final shot. He finally breathed when Sam tapped his phone and called it done.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Sammy.”

“Dean, it was great. You were engaging, funny—well, mostly.”

“Thanks.”

“My advice? I’d work on being more concise. I think you’re overexplaining things.”

Dean carried his plate to the coffee table. “What if people get confused?”

“For the videos, just deliver the choicest cuts. Save the—you want another beer?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Save the details for your written recipe. That’ll drive traffic to your blog, too.” Sam handed Dean an open bottle and sat down beside him with his plate. “I can edit this together tonight if you want. I’ll send it to you when I’m done.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Sammy.” Dean clinked his beer into Sam’s. He winked impishly. “To us.”

“Us against the world,” Sam agreed. “Castiel won’t know what hit him.”

Dean chuckled. He sank back into the couch and stretched. He gorged himself on fries, got up for another beer, and tried to follow the thread of the show they were watching for a while before finally giving up. Crowley stared at him from the fireplace, blinking slowly, and when Dean woke up, both Sam and their dishes were gone.

“Sammy?”

“Just cleaning up. I got it, Dean. Go lie down. You look beat.”

Dean shuffled up the stairs gratefully. He brushed his teeth and changed into the pajamas he’d left on the vanity earlier. When he turned off the bathroom light, he vacillated between heading in the direction of his office or his bed before settling on the latter. He figured that, if Sam were sending him a finished video, he could just as easily post that with his phone.

Dean sighed when his head touched his pillow. He felt like he’d worked two days in the fields without sleep. It was unbelievable how draining appearing on camera was proving to be.

He rolled onto his side and unlocked his phone. He brought up Castiel’s Twitter again, refreshing it. There was a post from six minutes ago.

His heart thumped; he could practically hear his headboard tapping against the wall in time with it.

_Protest this Saturday. 10 am, Lafayette Square. Children still in cages, families still torn apart. We keep up the pressure. #nobannowall #nohumanisillegal_

Below it was a picture of Castiel standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial with his arms crossed, staring directly at the camera. Challenging it.

Dean looked away, up at the moon through his window. His heart wouldn't stop racing. What kind of lunacy had he fallen prey to in the last 24 hours?

His phone chimed. It was Sam.

 _Video attached. It’s gonna be great, Dean. See you bright and early._ _😊_

Dean’s finger hovered over the notification. Instead of opening the video, he clicked into the field to reply to Sam’s text.

_Hey, can I crash at your place this weekend?_

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Spicy French Fries, Minted Peas, and Morels with Butter and Tarragon

_Comfort food—everyone has their own version of it. When Sam asks me to make him some, he’s talking about a dinner I first made for him in his senior year of high school, back when he was just “trying out” vegetarianism. This is a slightly adapted version of it, using the seasonal ingredients I have on hand. Something called comfort food shouldn’t require a special trip to the grocery store, after all._

Cook time: 50 minutes

Serves 2

6 large Russet potatoes

1 ½ tablespoons high smoke point oil (e.g. brown rice oil or canola oil)

½ teaspoon ground cumin

½ teaspoon smoked paprika

½ teaspoon ground coriander

½ teaspoon chili powder or cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon garlic salt

1 teaspoon brown sugar or maple sugar

3 cups frozen peas

4 tablespoons butter

1/3 cup fresh mint leaves, finely chopped

8 ounces fresh morel mushrooms

¼ cup fresh tarragon leaves, roughly chopped

Salt

Freshly ground black pepper

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Wash the potatoes, then slice off four long sides—you’re essentially shaping each potato into a long rectangle. Don’t bother slicing off the ends. Once all the potatoes are four-sided, slice them into lengthwise slabs. (Sammy and I like ours around 1/3 inch wide, but you can go for ½ inch if you prefer steak fries or ¼ inch if you like matchstick fries. Be sure to adjust the cooking time up or down, respectively.) Once you have your slabs, slice them into roughly equal strips. Ideally, they should be as wide as they are deep.

Gently toss your potatoes with the oil in a large mixing bowl, making sure each strip is coated. Use more oil if necessary. Cover two baking sheets with aluminum foil and scatter the potatoes over them in a single layer.* Avoid crowding them. Place them in the top and bottom thirds of the oven and let roast for 25 minutes, then switch their positions to ensure even cooking and roast for another 25 minutes.**

While the potatoes are in the oven, prepare their seasoning. In a large serving bowl, mix together the cumin, smoked paprika, coriander, chili powder, garlic salt, and brown sugar.

Because they only take a short time to cook and should be served immediately, the peas and morels only come together towards the end of your potatoes’ cooking time. Wash the morels to remove any grit or tiny insects, then dry on a paper towel. Don’t soak them too long, or they’ll get waterlogged. If you have any morels that are significantly larger than the others, slice them in half.

Personally, I microwave my frozen peas, but prepare them however you like (boiling and steaming will get you pretty much the same result as microwaving). Once your peas are hot, toss them with 2 tablespoons of butter and the mint until the butter is melted. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

For the morels, heat the remaining 2 tablespoons butter in a large pan over medium heat. Then, just sauté the morels for about 15 minutes. Turn down your heat if the butter starts to smoke. Cook until most to all of the liquid has evaporated. Thorough cooking of morels is part of food safety—they contain toxins when raw—so don’t rush this part. Once the morels are finished cooking, sprinkle with the chopped tarragon, salt, and black pepper.

Remove the potatoes from the oven once the fries in the middle of the sheets are nicely golden. Coax the fries off the aluminum foil and into the large serving bowl of seasonings you prepared earlier. Use a spatula or wooden spoon to gently fold the spice mixture through the fries. Serve immediately…well, they’re French fries. You didn’t need me to tell you that.

*For me, oven fries cooked on a sheet of aluminum foil are the best balance of simplicity and results. Even well-oiled fries can stick to a baking sheet; roasting them on foil vastly simplifies cleanup. Some cooks swear by cooking their oven fries on a raised rack set into a cookie sheet, but I find laying every strip correctly and making sure they don’t fall through to be too nerve-wracking. It’s comfort food, folks. I keep things simple.

**Most recipes ask you to flip over the fries halfway through. This annoys me, especially since I inevitably end up burning my hands or breaking my fries in half with my spatula. In my experience, the fries are still perfectly good without being flipped. If you want to flip them, though, knock yourself out.


	3. Arugula, Fennel, and Avocado Salad with Raspberry Honey Vinaigrette

_Always appreciated a rear view, myself._ _😉_

Dean passed his phone from hand to hand for a few seconds before glancing up. Sam looked entirely too pleased.

“It’s an innuendo,” Sam said brightly. “He means he wants to check out your ass.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Wow, thanks. Had no idea.”

“Happy to help.”

At the chiming of the doorbell, they both turned to the hall. Sam scrambled up.

“Finally. I’m starving.”

Dean sighed and sat back in the couch cushions. Castiel’s latest comment had come underneath one of Dean’s rare non-food posts, a photograph of the sunset from atop the hollow that carved through the center of Henry Winchester’s property. An hour before, when he and Sam had been wrapping up the day’s work, Dean had looked out at the newly uncovered strawberry terraces, painted by sunlight the color of ripe persimmons, and snapped a picture. He uploaded it right after washing up and cracking open a beer, typing out the caption to the background noise of Sam calling in their pizza order.

_View from my backyard. #sunset #nature #farmlife_

“I swear,” Sam said, as he returned to the living room with the pizza boxes. “That kid looked so familiar. Must have been someone’s younger brother. Does Charlie have a brother? Kind of looked like her.”

“Yeah, but he’s older. Lives in…Ecuador, I think. Or Uruguay.”

“Oh. Not him, then.” Sam handed Dean his pizza box. “Those countries aren’t really close to each other, by the way.”

Dean scowled. “Text Charlie if you really want to know which one it is.”

“Sheesh.” Sam bit into one of his slices. “So, you said anything back yet?”

“Not yet. I thought you were going to help, not make fun of the situation.”

“Making fun of the situation _is_ helping you. You’re still taking all of it too seriously. He’s complimenting you. If that’s all you want it to be, then—”

“What do you mean _if_ that’s all I want it to be?” Dean said, almost knocking the pizza box off his knees in his indignation.

Sam shrugged.

“Thanks for nothing,” Dean muttered. He started typing out his response. Like he needed Sam’s help, anyway.

 _@Castiel I’ve got about 160 acres of rear view, that enough for you?_ _😛_

Dean put his phone down and opened his box. A large meat lover’s pie—sharp pepperoni, crumbly sausage, spicy chicken—wafted up to him.

“Damn.” Dean rubbed his hands together. “Almost forgot how hungry I am.”

“Nice to take the night off cooking once in a while, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, through a mouthful of pizza. “Good idea, Sammy.”

Later in the evening, after more pizza and beer and a futile attempt by Dean to interest his brother in an animated series on Netflix, Sam brought up the future.

“Think I’ll head back to DC Thursday morning.” He stifled a burp. “Part of me wants to stay longer, but I kind of need to do some stuff around the apartment and just relax before Saturday.”

“Saturday? You coming to the protest too?”

“No, I can’t. I have a work conference in Baltimore all day.” Sam sighed. “You’re okay if I don’t come out again this Sunday, right? I’m going to be beat.”

“’Course. I can cook for you there instead.”

Sam smiled gratefully. “You don’t have to, Dean. Really. Besides, you’ll probably have better things to do. Like Castiel. Er, I mean, getting to know Castiel.”

“And it’s alright if I get there Friday night?” Dean said, ignoring him.

“Yeah, don’t forget the visitor parking pass I gave you. Oh! We can get falafel for dinner. There’s a great place three blocks away. You’ve got to try peanut sauce on fries.”

Sam chattered on about his neighborhood while petting Crowley in his lap, and Dean took the opportunity to surreptitiously check whether Castiel had replied to his comment. Usually, Castiel bantered back in a matter of minutes, which stroked Dean’s vanity—he imagined Castiel watching his phone, waiting on Dean’s attentions. This time, though, there was still nothing after an hour and a half. Dean tried to not let it bother him.

_Probably just studying. Cramming. Wait, is that something people who’re writing their dissertations do?_

“Dean, stop staring at your phone. It’s not going to make him respond any sooner.”

“I’m not staring,” Dean blurted. He stood, gathered their empty pizza boxes. “Mind your own business.”

Dean ferried their trash to the garbage bin in the kitchen to the sound of Sam’s chuckling. Once he was safely out of sight, he brought up his Instagram.

 _@WinchesterBerries A lot of guys online claim they have 160 acres. I think I’m going to have to check things out in person._ _😉_

Dean’s reflection in the window above the sink grinned stupidly. Deep in his chest, he felt a strange mixture of relief and excitement. And—though he’d rather eat Sam’s cooking than admit this to another living soul—he felt an indisputable tingle of interest from Little Dean.

He was staring down at his crotch in consternation when Sam’s throat-clearing interrupted him.

“Huh? What?”

“Just getting another beer.” Sam popped open a can; he glanced at Dean’s phone, then his warm and flustered face. He shook his head as he disappeared into the hall, grinning all the way.

Dean was surprised to find that he didn’t care. He immediately returned his gaze to Castiel’s comment. There were a few replies to the post since he’d left it. Dean didn’t normally look through all of them, but now that Sam was being a little shit and leaving him to his own devices, maybe reading what others were saying would help him figure out how to act.

 _@Castiel omfg Destiel_ _😍💕_

 _@Castiel I don’t think it’s his tracts of land you’re interested in, you harlot_ _😝😄_

_@Castiel wtf 🤣 someone write a fanfic of this already #destiel_

He wasn’t sure what was weirder to him in retrospect, as he lay under the covers later that night, staring at the faint moonlight on his bedroom ceiling. Was it how he’d read, on a tear of dry-throated fascination, comment after speculative comment, feeling none of the discomfort he’d felt that first night? Was it how he’d spent something like an hour—remaining on the couch with Crowley long after Sam had stumbled up the stairs, giggling irksomely—scrolling down, down through Castiel’s Instagram, until he’d reached the genesis of it all: a square, low-resolution photograph of a seaside town, captioned only by _#home_?

Was it how, as he’d been brushing his teeth minutes before, he paused, slack-jawed, and realized that he was daydreaming of walking with Castiel along the slope of Henry Winchester’s hollow, watching the sun go down over his little slice of the world?

Maybe—and this was the last thought in his head as he curled onto his side and shut his eyes—the weirdest part of all of this was that he was beginning to feel none of it was very weird at all.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Wednesday was another long day on the farm. Sam finished uncovering the rest of the strawberries, shaking the hay out of his hair once he was done with an endearing amount of pride. Dean was finally confident enough in the frost conditions to lay the edible flowers in the garden beds—sowing most of them, transporting the ones that he’d had to germinate earlier from the greenhouse to the soil. By the time he’d patted in and watered the last row for the day, he could barely see the bird coop or the fence that separated the back garden from the rest of the yard. His back ached from all the bending over.

“You look exhausted,” Sam said, once they’d trudged into the mudroom. “Delivery again?”

“Not two days in a row,” Dean said dismissively. “Besides, it’s your last night here for a while. There’s some red pepper pesto in the freezer. I’ll make a salad to go with it. It’ll take me ten minutes, tops.”

It was too warm for a fire, so Dean immediately proceeded to the staircase. His shower beckoned.

“You’re the best!” Sam called, with the overexuberance that only deep fatigue could provoke in people. “You’ll make someone a lovely husband one day!”

Roasted red pepper pesto had been Dean’s first recipe on his blog; the dinner they ate that night was what had been left over in the food processor two weeks ago. At the dining table, Sam obliquely pointed out how much had changed in that short period of time.

“You passed 3000 followers today,” Sam said, looking up from his phone.

“I know,” Dean said pensively.

“Okay.” Sam crossed his arms. “I’ll wait.”

“For what?”

“Who’s the one who told you to play up the whole—what are they calling it? ‘Destiel’ thing? And you doubted me.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Man, I just love being right.”

“Yeah, I might have noticed.”

“Stop being such a grump,” Sam said, pouring himself another glass of Merlot. “You’re going to meet Castiel in a few days, right? Like, that’s completely something you’re making happen. Not me.”

“And?”

“And, you should unclench a little bit. Your online personality—it’s fun and flirty. Castiel’s responding to that. What do you think he’ll do when he meets you and you look—” Sam gestured to the other end of the table. “Humorless and constipated?”

“Says Mr. Bitchface.”

“I’m not the one trying to trap a pretty butterfly in my web of sweet, sweet honey,” Sam shot back. “Huh, that was about three different metaphors.”

“I think that’s my cue to finish the rest of the wine,” Dean said. He beckoned to the bottle, and Sam slid it to him grudgingly.

Sam drove back to DC the next morning. That was always how they phrased it. When Sam tied his shoes and Dean waved him off from the front porch, watching his car until it disappeared behind the line of trees that bounded the next property, he was always “heading back to DC,” never “going home.” Home was the farm.

Dean continued the planting of the flowerbeds from the previous day, feeling the dull ache of loneliness for the next several hours. It had been a long time—since Christmas, now that he thought about it—since Sam had stayed at home for so many days. Dean had been getting used to his company.

Charlie, thankfully, provided him with a diversion when she showed up in the late afternoon. They had tea together on the back deck while Dean explained why he was leaving her and Kevin to man the Winchester and Sons farmer’s market booth on their own this weekend.

“You sure you guys will be alright?” Dean handed Charlie the keys to the delivery truck. “I know this is kind of short notice. I appreciate it.”

“Definitely. I mean, he and I pretty much do all the work at the farmer’s markets, anyway.”

Dean sipped his tea. “Yeah, that’s a lie. Unless you call ‘flirting with every chick under 80’ working.”

“Glass houses, man.”

“Uh, come again? I don’t do that.”

“You and your Instagram thing? You know, I never figured your type would be the hot gay nerd, but I can dig it. He’s dreamy.”

“Whoa. Whoa! I’m not sure what you think you know, but I just like talking to him.”

“I bet. Have you slid into his DMs yet?”

“Okay, this—we are not having this conversation.” Dean cleared his throat. “First Sam, now you? Why does everyone think I’m crushing on some dude all of a sudden?”

“Maybe because you’re taking the weekend off to go meet him,” Charlie muttered.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Dean said petulantly.

“Okay, sheesh. No need to get so sensitive.” She rose up and walked to the end of the deck, leaning over the railing with her cup of tea. “You got all the flowers in? Need any help?”

“Nah, I’m mostly done.” He joined her at the railing. “I have a good feeling, you know? Everyone likes flowers.”

Charlie nodded. “Yup, if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a twenty-something with a record of extremely dubious life choices up to now, it’s that we should trust our instincts.” She elbowed him softly. “Especially you. You’ve got pretty good ones.”

There was something more to what she was saying, but she put down her empty mug and walked back to her car before Dean could ask her what it was.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Dean finished the flowerbeds around midday on Friday. As with everything on a farm, it had taken him longer than he’d anticipated, and he found himself rushing around the property, tying up loose ends, until the early evening. He topped up the chicken feeders, refilled the duck pond, and dumped a couple heads of iceberg lettuce around the coop, which the birds rushed to attack with wild-eyed zeal. He double checked the fence line and bade them goodbye.

“Charlie will come by and check on you,” he said. “Don’t go getting eaten.”

Rain was in the forecast, so he moved the mulch in the back of the truck into the garage. He checked the water levels in the catchments and brought in the laundry on the clothesline. Crowley watched him as he did the folding.

“I’ll only be gone a few days,” Dean said.

Crowley blinked slowly.

“You’ll be fine. You’ve got plenty of food and water, and I’m leaving the heat on.” Dean finished folding up some of Sam’s underwear. “Dammit, it’s already seven? I need to get out of here.”

He filled one of John Winchester’s old bags from the Marines with two changes of clothes and his toiletries, then checked the lights, the stove, and every door and window.

“Alright.” Dean paused at the front door. “See you Sunday night, Crowley.”

He locked the front door and jogged to the garage, where he started up the Impala and texted Sam that he was on his way. Because it was a car ill-suited to farmwork, Dean rarely got to drive it, bar a weekly jaunt around town for maintenance purposes. Maybe its impracticality was part of the unique power and freedom that Dean felt behind its wheel.

The drive to Washington was pleasant, with not as much traffic as there could have been and good music on the radio. Dean found Sam’s street without any trouble and parked in the space right in front of his building, a red brick rowhouse with a lilac bush and a Japanese maple standing guard on either side of the stairs. Sam opened the house’s front door for him before he knocked.

“Hey, you feel like heading out for dinner right now? I’m famished.”

Before Dean’s mouth had even closed around “sure,” Sam snatched Dean’s bag and ran it up to the second floor. Dean waited on the doorstep for him, staring up at the bruised-purple clouds that hung thick above the streetlights. He wondered whether any stars were visible here, even on a clear night.

“Was too lazy to cook anything for lunch,” Sam said, once he returned to the front porch. “Ended up just snacking.”

Dean frowned. “How many meals do you get takeout for?”

“All of my lunches and maybe half my dinners. I usually make my own breakfast, though.”

“Wait, you pour your own nut milk into your own cereal? You’ll have to teach me how to do that.”

“Shut up, jerk.” They’d reached the end of Sam’s street; he gestured straight ahead to the crosswalk. “Oh, before I forget. I texted Charlie. Her brother lives in Montevideo.”

“Huh?”

“Uruguay,” Sam said.

“Oh, right. So, about tomorrow. Can I walk to Lafayette Square from here?”

Sam shook his head and spent the rest of the walk to the falafel restaurant giving Dean elaborate directions, concluding with a sigh as they got into the line to order that he’d just have to write it all down once they got back to his apartment. Dean plopped every condiment that would fit onto his falafel as well as a few more, and the hot foil wrapper leaked and bulged with each bite he took.

“This is good,” Dean said. “I bet I could make something similar to this, actually.”

“I’m surprised, Dean.”

“Huh?”

“You forgot to photograph your meal. Then again, it’s probably best that that monstrosity doesn’t see the light of day.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“No?”

“No, I just….” Dean looked down at his fries. “I don’t want people to know I’m in DC.”

“People? Oh. You mean Castiel.”

“I want it to be a surprise, alright?”

“Yeah, obviously.” Sam bit into his falafel. “It’s more romantic that way.”

Dean exhaled, long and slow. “No, because then I can still change my mind about all this at the last minute.”

A long silence passed over their table. Sam chewed his food, seeming to mull something over.

“Dean, all my jokes aside, you should go for it. I can tell you want to meet him. And maybe it started out as a ploy to get more followers, but you’ve really taken a shine to each other.”

“Sure, but—Sam, there’s a part of me that doesn’t even know why I’m here. Like, am I losing my mind? Showing up at some event just because a dude I don’t even know is going to be there? What the hell am I doing?”

“Okay, Dean? Breathe, just breathe. It’s not a big deal, alright? It’s not marriage; it’s not a multistate distribution contract. It’s just meeting someone you’ve been talking to online for a week on neutral ground. If you don’t hit it off, big fucking deal. Make some excuse, then head back to my place and chill out. I’ll be back from Baltimore by seven; we’ll order Chinese and watch some Netflix. Maybe hit the bars afterward, if you’re up to it. Okay?”

Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. It’s not a big deal.”

“Of course I’m right.” Sam glanced at Dean’s falafel. “You should probably finish eating that. It looks like it’s about to fall over.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

They traded a laugh back and forth, then fell into relative quiet. Occasionally, Sam would punctuate it with remarks about the bars and cafés further up and down the boulevard, or Dean would blurt out a bewildered assessment of the clothing someone outside on the sidewalk was wearing voluntarily. Sam stole several of Dean’s fries, claiming them as the toll for his pep talk earlier.

“Oh, I finished editing that video of you making the salad the other day,” Sam said, once Dean was done with his food. “I’ll send it to you when we get back.”

“I was wondering what happened to that.”

“Yeah, there was some color issue with the ingredients once they were in the bowl. I figured it out eventually.” Sam gobbled up the last of his fries. “I’ll show you my process on Sunday so you can do it yourself. I’m about to get busy again at work.”

“Sam, uh—” Dean smiled. “Thanks. I mean it.”

“Of course. Dean, I know how much your food means to you. I’m happy to help.”

“It means a lot, Sammy.” Dean pushed his chair back and sniffed. “Alright, let’s get out of here before you try to make us have a chick flick moment.”

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Arugula, Fennel, and Avocado Salad with Raspberry Honey Vinaigrette

_There’s a one-word cheat code when it comes to my brother and food: salad. The dude loves salad to a degree that is—in a word—disturbing. So, we eat a lot of salad in our house. This springtime salad is one of his favorites. It’s spicy with arugula and anise-cool with fennel, so it pairs beautifully with the sweet and hot taste of a raspberry honey and Dijon vinaigrette. And the best part? It only takes a few minutes to throw together, which is exactly what you need after twelve straight hours of work on the farm._

Cook time: 10 minutes

Serves 2

8 ounces baby arugula

1 large fennel bulb, washed and with stems removed

1 large avocado, diced into bite-sized chunks

1/3 cup pepitas

½ cup extra virgin olive oil

¼ cup apple cider vinegar

1 teaspoon raspberry honey*

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

Pinch cayenne pepper

Salt

In a small pan, toast the pepitas over medium heat until slightly crispy, about three minutes. Remove from heat and let cool.

Starting at the top of the bulb, thinly slice the fennel into widthwise half-moons (if you have a mandolin, you can use it for this part). Leave out the tough base and core of the bulb—this is the darker part that attaches to the root.

Now for the dressing. Combine the extra virgin olive oil, apple cider vinegar, raspberry honey, Dijon mustard, pinch of cayenne pepper, and a pinch of salt. Whisk well and taste—add more of any of these ingredients to suit your palate.

In a large salad bowl, combine the arugula, sliced fennel, diced avocado, and toasted pepitas. Coat with the vinaigrette and toss well. This salad pairs wonderfully with the roasted red pepper pesto from two weeks ago!

*If you can’t find raspberry honey, any honey will do. I use raspberry honey for this recipe because of its bright, flowery, and very sweet profile…and, well, because I’m a berry farmer.


	4. Magdalenas

Dean was pleasantly surprised when he awoke at 7:30 to the scent of coffee. It was a rare morning when he slept in this late; then again, it was an even rarer morning when he slept anywhere other than the farm. Maybe the miles made it easier for him to forget his responsibilities for a weekend. Or maybe the skyglow and buzzing ambient noise of the city had just made it harder for him to fall into a deep sleep.

He stretched back his arms and neck over the end of the sofa, wiggled his toes out from under his blanket. The apartment was warm and dark. Dean peered at the concrete-grey sky through the kitchen window’s open shutters. There would be rain today, and probably a lot of it.

On the other side of the wall, the thrumming of Sam’s shower petered out. Sam slid open the shower door, humming something indecipherable. Probably Celine Dion, if Dean had to guess.

Dean tumbled out of the couch’s sagging embrace and crossed into the kitchen. He searched the cupboard for a mug and poured. In the street below, the young leaves and unripe buds of every tree shivered in the breeze, exposing their undersides to the west.

Definitely rain.

Dean perused the refrigerator for half and half or, failing that, milk. His search ended with a sigh.

“Morning,” Sam said, just as Dean closed the refrigerator door. He was wearing a peacock blue suit—too tight in the legs, Dean thought—and brown wingtips. “Sleep well?”

Dean rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, surprisingly well.”

“I told you, that couch is comfier than it looks.” Sam poured his coffee and walked to the refrigerator, shaking the near-empty carton of almond milk once he retrieved it. “Crap, I need to hit the store.”

“Is that all you have?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. You know too much dairy bloats me, Dean. Not what I need in the morning. Besides, I thought you take yours black.”

“Yeah, mostly. Sometimes I just like a little cream in my coffee.”

A smile pulled at the corner of Sam’s mouth as he sipped. He gathered a bowl and spoon, a box of granola, and a tub of plain yogurt before speaking again.

“I’ll be at panels most of the day,” he said. “I’ll check my phone, though. Text me if you need anything.”

Dean glanced at the stove clock. “Surprised you’re still here. Won’t it take you a while to get there?”

“Nah, Baltimore’s basically a suburb of DC. Half an hour on the train.” Sam stirred his granola. “What about you? You still going to that protest?”

“‘Course I am. A little rain’s not going to stop me.”

“Of course not.” Somehow, Sam’s smirk was even more infuriating when combined with a mouth full of breakfast cereal.

“Do I want to know what’s going through your head?”

“You looking forward to finally meeting Castiel? You going to let him, I don’t know, cream your coffee?”

Dean scowled. “Stop projecting your fantasies about getting it on with a dude onto me.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam said. He scraped his bowl. “Just having a little fun with you, that’s all.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sam picked up his briefcase from the kitchen counter and jingled his keys. “Alright. So, just walk up to Calvert Street, then cross the bridge. You’ll see the shops—”

Dean held up a sheet of paper torn from a yellow legal pad. “I know, Sam. You already wrote it all down.”

“Just making sure,” he said, opening the front door. “You’re not the only one who gets to worry, you know.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Sammy. Now get the hell out of here already.”

Sam winked. “Good luck.”

Dean stared at the closed door for a few seconds, listening to the sound of Sam jogging down the house’s staircase. He poured another cup of coffee and forced himself to eat a slice of toast with some Winchester and Sons Dewberry Jam. When he was this nervous, his appetite was always the first thing to go. Given how much he enjoyed eating, he’d always thought that was weirdly fitting.

At 8:30, Dean picked up his father’s duffel bag and walked to the bathroom, looking forward to the small luxury of a morning shower. He devoted a few minutes to just standing under the piping-hot water before picking up and sniffing the body wash on Sam’s bathtub shelf suspiciously. It was a metrosexual blend of citrus and dry pinewood and new-mown hay, but it wasn’t as if there was anything else available. Dean shrugged and lathered himself with it. Maybe Castiel would like the way it smelled.

He tried to ignore that he’d thought that.

In the bathroom mirror, he dragged some of Sam’s gel through his hair, spiking it up at the front and patting it down above his ears. He brushed his teeth and shaved his face and swiped his armpits with deodorant and tensed his midsection, tapping his fingertips at the centerline of his abs. Farmwork was hard work, but at least it meant he didn’t have to go to a gym.

It was 9:15 when Dean finished in the bathroom. He started to worry that he’d be late. Could you be late to a protest?

Dean read over Sam’s directions for the fourth time before folding the paper up and sticking it in the back pocket of his jeans. He picked up his phone and paced while bringing up Castiel’s Instagram, then his Twitter.

_On my way to The People’s House to let the current occupant know that #familiesbelongtogether. Join me if you can. Don’t forget your raincoat._

Dean looked out the window; there was already some drizzle on the glass. He’d forgotten a waterproof jacket in his rush to pack yesterday. Considering how essential an article of clothing that was to a farmer, he felt unbearably sheepish.

Oh well. His leather jacket looked cooler, anyway.

Dean walked out to the landing and locked the door with Sam’s spare key. He was actually doing this.

There was only the lightest sprinkle of rain on his walk, and he found the subway station without any trouble. The escalator into the depths, crowded with miserable hunched shoulders under black raincoats, was steep and murky and seemed to stretch on forever.

If there were a descent into Hell, Dean thought, this is what it would look like.

It was only two stops, Sam had said, and the subway car was mostly full, so Dean stood for the duration. At first, the inertia of the metro caused him to stumble in his boots on the slick floor, but by the time he reached Farragut North, he was able to keep his footing.

This station was shallower, nowhere near as far down in the earth as the one Dean had departed from. He could hear the dripping of the water in the storm drains as he ascended to the surface. He took shelter under an awning to double check Sam’s directions. It was raining more now—enough for an umbrella, if he’d had one.

 _Two blocks down 17th Street, turn left onto H Street for one block,_ Dean thought, as he hurried through the crosswalk. A black Lexus nearly sideswiped him before he made it to the opposite curb. The drivers here were crazy.

After a few minutes, his destination came into view. The buildings ended, opening up to a well-tended bank of trees and a bronze statue atop a tall pedestal, though no large gathering of people was visible. Dean pushed into the park. He was shivering—with cold or anticipation, he wasn’t sure which.

“What the hell?” Dean mumbled.

He’d reached the huge equestrian statue in the center of the park. Aside from a couple sharing an umbrella at the other side of the circle, no one else was there.

Well, maybe the protest had been washed out after all. Dean was reaching into his pocket to check his phone when a throng of people on a nearby street caught his eye.

Signs. Distant call-and-response chanting. Promising.

Dean walked down the red brick pathway. By the time he’d reached the street separating him from the crowd, he was sure he’d found what he was looking for. Signs reading _Refugees Welcome, Home Is Here,_ and _Impeach Trump_ towered proudly above the masses of people, though they were beginning to wilt in the rain.

A few people glanced at him warmly; at least one regarded him with suspicion. He was the only person here with neither a hood nor an umbrella. Combined with the novelty of the situation, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt more exposed.

If he had to guess, he’d say there were around eighty people lined up along the White House fence. Since everyone’s face was hidden, and many of them were facing the fence anyway, he wasn’t sure how he’d find Castiel. He’d recognize his voice—Dean had rewatched his pasta video at least a dozen times, and he’d gone through all the other videos on his Instagram to boot—but with so many people here, it would be drowned out by the hubbub.

And then there was the thunder.

He’d heard the first grumblings of it as he crossed the park earlier, several seconds after the faintest of flashes in the western sky heralded its arrival. The distance was closing now, though: lightning like gnarled fingers pierced through the clouds, leaving white space in Dean’s vision when it faded. The thunder followed almost immediately. It didn’t sound like it was above him at all. It was low and resonant and bone-rattling, as if the earth were cracking beneath his feet.

There was no way he’d be able to find Castiel under these conditions. Dean slumped his shoulders as he stared at the dreary façade of the White House. The drizzle flattened his hair and stung the corners of his eyes. This had all been a mistake. He’d come all this way for nothing.

He felt like a fool. When it came to things like this, that was nothing new.

He was preparing to slink away when he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. Something about the grip—it was too tight, too familiar, to be a stranger.

“Dean?”

Dean whirled around. It was Castiel—holding onto Dean with one hand, drooping a sign that read _Resign_ from the other. Against all logic, his hair was still windblown and erect in the rain.

“It’s me, Castiel.” He moved his hand further up Dean’s shoulder. “I’m—wow, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I didn’t expect to see me here either,” Dean said, after they’d been staring at each other for longer than anyone would consider normal. “But, uh, here I am.”

Castiel smiled. He held out the arm holding the sign, offering the umbrella on his wrist to Dean.

“Hurry. My hair’s getting wet.”

Dean wrangled the umbrella open. At first, he held it over Castiel alone, but Castiel moved into Dean’s personal space to share it with him. He was warm and smelled of coffee, patchouli, and something Dean belatedly realized was lavender.

“How’d you find me in all these people?”

Castiel glanced at the collar of Dean’s leather jacket, then at his deflated hairline.

“Well, you kind of stick out.”

Dean nodded slowly. “In a good way, I hope.”

“Of course. A very good way.”

Castiel was looking at his lips. Dean tried not to think about how close their bodies were.

“Um. Speaking of sticking out, I like your Inspector Gadget coat.”

“Hey, it’s raining. I wouldn’t normally wear something like this.” Castiel adjusted his trench coat’s lapels. “Wait, do you really?”

Dean forced his mouth to move, but all it did was grin. It was strange. He’d always been good at talking to people—better even, he thought, than his attorney brother—but something about Castiel’s presence stripped him of all his natural eloquence, all his ready one-liners.

“Well, I like your jacket too. It’s very James Dean. If James Dean had just strolled through a car wash, that is.”

“I forgot my rain jacket, okay? And this is partly your fault.”

Castiel tilted his head. “My fault?”

“Yeah. You said to meet at Lafayette Square. I walked around and around in the rain looking for you. You’re lucky I found you at all.”

“I said…ah. You mean my Twitter post.”

Dean reddened. He looked down at the base of the fence.

“That’s just shorthand for here. It’s a huge pain in the ass to get permitted for a protest in the park itself. Demonstrating right outside, on Pennsylvania Avenue—way easier.” Castiel nudged his shoulder. “People who usually come to these things already know that. Just not—”

“Not backwoods yokels like me?”

“Not tall, charming berry farmers from out of town.”

“I’m not that tall,” Dean mumbled.

“Besides,” Castiel said. “Here, we’re closer to the White House. I like to imagine Trump looking out the window and seeing our resolve.” As if to underline the point, he thrust his sign up from under the umbrella and joined the chanting.

“Say it loud, say it clear! Immigrants are welcome here!”

Dean glanced around. He’d been so engrossed in the conversation that he’d forgotten they were in the middle of a crowd.

“I’m surprised so many people turned up,” Dean said.

“There’d be way more if it weren’t raining. Although, there’re about 40 of us, give or take, who show up regardless of snow or rain or sweltering heat. We’re like the postal service.” Castiel shouted another chant, then turned back to Dean. “Secretly, I like protesting in these conditions. It’s a dramatic backdrop, and an appropriate one. Just before you arrived, a lightning bolt struck the White House. If that’s not a sign from God, I don’t know what is.”

Dean frowned. He couldn’t tell if Castiel was being flip or not. He’d never cared much for religion, and in his experience, people who claimed that God was on their side were usually massive hypocrites.

Dean cleared his throat. “So, uh, does all this do anything?”

“Depends on your criteria.” Castiel seamlessly weaved in a hollered “stand up, fight back!” before tilting his head again. Apparently, he did that a lot. “Does protest change everything in an unjust system all on its own? No, of course not. The world is more complex than that. Are social movements behind nearly all the progress we’ve made as a species towards a more inclusive, humane, and equitable world? Yes, unequivocally.”

Dean pondered that. Owing to a particularly impassioned chant, Castiel swayed away from him, and Dean found himself unconsciously matching his movement, bringing their bodies together again.

He had to keep the umbrella over him, after all.

“In this specific instance, we have some fairly good evidence that activism works, since Trump was forced to sign that face-saving executive order last year. But we’re not stopping until every family is whole again.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was going to ask you. I thought all that was over.”

Castiel shook his head. “No. The media just isn’t focusing on it as much. The administration blew past the deadline set in a court order last year for reunifying parents with their children. Worst of all, they went into all this with no plan in place to reunite the families, so hundreds of parents have been deported without their children. They’re likely to never see them again.”

“That’s…I mean, that’s terrible.”

“It’s a crime against humanity. We’re not just here because of family separation, though. It’s a lot bigger than that. They’re demonizing immigrants and refugees. People who don’t look like what they think Americans look like. Trying to turn us all against each other while they pass tax cuts for the rich. That’s what the Muslim ban is about, too.” Castiel turned to him. “I think I’m ranting. Feel free to cut me off whenever you like.”

Dean smiled. “No, it’s fine. I like listening to you talk.”

“Really? You might be the first person to think that. On the other hand, there’s still time for you to change your mind. El pueblo unido jamás será vencido!”

“‘The people united, will never be defeated,” Dean said, once the chanting had abated.

“You know Spanish?”

“A little bit. I grew up around a lot of workers who spoke it.”

“Ah,” Castiel said. He drew out the vowel. “Right, that makes sense. You own a large farm. Or your family did, at the time.”

Something shifted in Castiel’s bearing then. He stopped leaning into Dean’s umbrella arm; he squared his shoulders a bit more, putting a sliver of distance between himself and Dean. Dean could sense that he’d misstepped, but wasn’t sure how. His palm sweated against the umbrella’s handle.

For a while, they didn’t speak much. Castiel was occupied with protesting, Dean with sheltering them from the rain and observing everything around him. In practical terms, his attention was hardly evenly divided. He spent about 10% of his time glancing around at the crowd and the White House and devoted the rest to watching Castiel.

It was hard not to be fascinated by him. Dean had always been drawn to passionate, intense people—ones who challenged him; ones who reminded him of how much he didn’t know. Of course, that was like playing with fire. In the past, his feelings of inadequacy had caused him to snap like a dead raspberry cane under the pressure of measuring up, and he’d compensated by escaping into his work on the farm or scurrying to the nearest easy lay in town.

He didn’t want to do that anymore. As of three months ago, he was 30. It was time to put old habits to bed. To experience things differently than he had before. Maybe even for the first time.

“Rain’s letting up.”

Dean blinked. Castiel was looking at him.

“Oh.” Dean held out his free hand to test the droplets. “Yeah, seems like it’s starting to move on.”

“We should probably stay under the umbrella for a little longer, though. It’s still not dry.”

Dean chuckled. Castiel tilted his head quizzically.

“You just want to keep standing close to me.”

“Maybe I do,” Castiel said. He returned his shoulder to Dean’s, leaning into him again.

“Are you—huh. I can never tell if you’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

Dean swallowed and looked away.

“What’s the matter?”

“Forget it. Never mind.”

In his peripheral vision, Dean could see Castiel studying his face, his mouth agape. He turned back to him after a few seconds.

“You don’t think you deserve it. You don’t think you’re worth that.”

For the first time, Dean glared at him. Castiel nodded, seeming to take that as confirmation. Their staring contest was finally broken by some jostling at Dean’s back.

“Sorry, man,” one of the demonstrators said.

“Looks like we’re breaking up.” Castiel looked at his watch. “It’s almost noon. A protest, like an army, marches on its stomach.”

Castiel began to click at his phone, and Dean watched his fingers fly over the screen. The first rays of sunlight were penetrating through the clouds now, warming his chestnut-brown mop of hair and igniting the electric blue of his eyes.

“Just texting the group…throwing the picture of the White House struck by lightning up on Twitter….” Castiel returned his phone to his pocket and smiled. “Shall we?”

“Uh—” Dean closed the umbrella. “Shall we what?”

“Well, I suppose we could continue standing here until one of the manifold law enforcement agencies with jurisdiction tells us to beat it, though I can tell you from experience that that’s not as fun as it looks.” Castiel strolled past Dean, stopping at the curb of Pennsylvania Avenue. “Or, I could buy you lunch.”

“Buy me lunch?” Dean looked down. The cracks in the sidewalk seemed suddenly fascinating. “What, like a date?”

Castiel laughed. “If it gives you comfort to see it that way.”

“Comfort? No, no. That’s not what I’m saying. Not what I’m saying at all.”

Castiel didn’t reply to that. Apparently, the dick was going to wait him out. When Dean finally looked up, Castiel’s eyes were crinkled in amusement.

“I’m just saying—I mean, I’m hungry, yeah. But you don’t have to buy me lunch. We just met.”

He nodded pensively. “Yet when people go out on their first dates—much of the time, haven’t they just met?”

“Well, yeah, but—” Dean’s eyes widened. “Wait, I’m confused. Are you asking me out or not? Because I’m, uh, straight.”

“That’s nice. The last time I checked, though, straight people still ate food like the rest of us.”

Dean couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

“I can already tell you’re a handful.”

“Or two,” Castiel said, with a wink.

“Er—” Dean felt himself going pink. He glanced at the front of Castiel’s pants for a second, then whipped his neck away to stare at the Corinthian columns of some building at the end of the street—a courthouse, if he had to guess. “That’s not what I meant. And no one likes a braggart, man.”

“You’re right. My apologies. I think I was born without the filter most people have.” He pushed off from the curb; Dean followed him across the avenue and into the park. “Some people find it endearing.”

“Really?” Dean made a face. “That’s one way to look at it, I guess.”

“Hey, you should show me some respect. I’ve come pretty far for someone who has no idea how to behave in human society.”

They’d stopped at the statue of Andrew Jackson, and Castiel turned to face him. He only took one step forward, but that was enough to send Dean’s heart thudding so rapidly that his blood roared louder than the ringing in his ears from the protest. He glanced at Castiel’s lips, licked his own, gulped down the burning-hot saliva in his mouth. When he looked up again, Castiel had narrowed his eyes at him.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Dean murmured, his eyes drawn to Castiel’s mouth again.

“Are we going to lunch, or not?”

“Uh, yeah.” He stepped back, scratched his nape. “Yeah, let’s go.”

“Excellent.” Castiel tilted his head thoughtfully. “Have you had Ethiopian before?”

“Ethiopian?” Dean echoed. His voice sounded thin and stupid. “No, can’t say I have.”

“It’s one of my favorites. So many great Ethiopian restaurants in DC; it’s one of the upsides of living here. So, what do you say? Willing to try something new?”

“Hey, I’ll try anything once.”

Castiel grinned. “Anything, huh?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean….”

“We have to take the Red Line,” Castiel said, sparing Dean the torture of further words. “I think the closest station is Farragut North. This way.”

He gestured to the path that Dean had first taken into the park. In spite of his shorter stride, Castiel walked quickly and confidently. Dean was so preoccupied with watching him move that he nearly collided with him when he stopped at the base of a bronze statue at the edge of the green.

“Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben,” Castiel said. “Hero of the Revolutionary War, George Washington’s chief of staff. Did you know he was gay?”

Dean blinked. “Uh, no. Not much of a history buff, sorry.”

“Most people don’t know that, don’t worry. There’s a lot of straightwashing of history. Unless the historical figure in question was a madman, a murderer, that sort of thing.” He carried on into the crosswalk that had just turned white. Dean followed behind, buoyed by Castiel’s slipstream.

“I’m taking you to my favorite Ethiopian restaurant,” Castiel said, once they reached the other shore. “It’s a few blocks from Union Station, on H Street. The flavors are amazing. A foodie like you will love them.”

“I thought you were more of a ‘delivery pizza and frozen burritos’ kind of guy.”

Castiel laughed. “Not too far off. I’m impressed you remembered that.”

 _I remember everything you’ve said to me in the last week,_ Dean didn’t say.

“A friend of mine turned me on to Ethiopian cuisine.” Tourists had sprouted up along the sidewalk like mushrooms after the rain, and Castiel carved a path through them effortlessly. Dean did his best to keep up. “You’ll get a kick out of the presentation; it’s awesome for food pictures. Another thing that’s great about Ethiopian is the prevalence of vegetarian dishes.”

“Not you, too,” Dean groaned.

“I know, I know. I should really go full vegan. It’s the humane thing, not to mention better for the planet. I’ve been meaning to for years. Sometimes, though, I get an itch that only mozzarella sticks can scratch.”

“That’s bacon for me. Find me a plant that tastes the same, and I just might join you and Sam on the dark side.”

“With current technology, that’s probably only a few years off.” Castiel pointed across the street. “We’ll cut through that park.”

Dean nodded. He snuck a glance at Castiel’s profile while they waited for the light. He wasn’t sneaky enough, though, because Castiel caught him.

“Huh?”

“No, nothing,” Dean said, his voice clipped.

“That’s a relief. I thought I’d missed something of grave import.”

Dean looked down. He was too embarrassed to jab back against Castiel’s teasing. He felt guileless and heavy-tongued and moonstruck; he was seventeen again, wearing a scratchy button-down to his first date with Amanda Heckerling and balancing one of those overfilled movie theater popcorn buckets in one arm as she clung to the other. Even back then, though, he didn’t think he’d been this shy.

“So, Sam,” Castiel said, once the light changed. “That’s your brother’s name?”

“Yup. He lives in town. I’m staying at his place for the weekend.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a lawyer. Uh, antitrust law. Or administrative law? Something with an ‘a.’”

Castiel shot him a scandalized look. “Don’t you know? The two of you seem close.”

“We are! It’s just that—that kind of stuff sort of…slips through the cracks in my mind.”

“Ah, so you have holes in your brain. How tragic. Well, at least you’re pretty.”

Dean laughed. “Shut up.”

He pushed his shoulder into Castiel’s—gently, carefully, like leaning on an open door. Castiel swayed and shoved Dean’s shoulder back with what could only be described as a giggle, and he looked, for the first time since he’d commented on Dean’s linguine post a week earlier, like the more bashful of the two of them.

When they reached the station, Castiel scanned through the turnstile with perfect timing, then found two adjacent seats in the subway car while Dean was still negotiating the crush of humans at the doors. Dean sighed when he plopped down beside him.

“Everything okay?”

Dean smiled at him. “Yeah. It’s just a lot of people. Way more than I’m used to.”

“Ah, you’re overstimulated.”

“That’s—one way to put it.”

“I felt the same way when I first moved to DC. I’d mostly lived in small towns before coming here. I really took to it, though.”

“I can tell.” Dean scratched his chin. “I think I’ll always prefer the country. I’m a simple man.”

“You’re lucky,” Castiel said. “Your home looks beautiful.”

Dean nodded. He didn’t always feel lucky; sometimes he felt trapped. He hadn’t chosen the life he lived, though he wasn’t sure whether he’d choose differently, given the chance. Sometimes, that uncertainty was paralyzing.

“This is us,” Castiel said, nudging him.

They exited the car and walked to the escalator. Once he’d stepped on, Dean felt Castiel’s hand between his shoulder blades.

“Right for standing, left for passing.”

“Sam taught me that much,” Dean said. He flashed Castiel a wry look over his shoulder. “That’s why you’re standing behind me, right?”

Castiel shrugged. “I can’t complain about the view from the step below you.”

“There’s your lack of a filter again.”

“Eyes forward.” Castiel patted Dean’s back. “You don’t want to be one of those tourists who gets his foot caught in the end of the escalator.”

“Isn’t that an urban myth?”

“Let’s not find out. I just got the chance to meet you, after all.”

The escalator emptied out into the loggia at the side of Union Station. Castiel walked to the white granite archway leading to the interior, and they passed through the huge glass door into the main hall.

“We’ll cut through. It’s faster than going around.”

Dean looked around at the monumental arches, the marble statues atop fluted colonnades. They sure liked their columns here.

“You know, I think the last time I came here was on a school trip when I was fourteen.”

“Haven’t you been to DC since then?”

“Yeah, just not to this place. It’s pretty cool.”

By now, they were in the center of the main hall, where everything seemed to open up and out even further. There was so much space, and so many people coming and going, that it almost felt like the outdoors.

“I’ve always thought it’s romantic.”

“Huh?”

“This place. Imagine all the reunions that have happened on this very spot. Soldiers coming back from all our country’s wars, embracing their loved ones. And then, only a few feet away, tearful goodbyes between lovers. Perhaps for the last time.”

“You get all that just from empty tiles?”

Castiel tapped Dean’s thigh with his sign. “I have a vivid imagination.”

Dean snorted. “You going to carry that all the way there?”

Castiel looked down at his sign. “Well, yeah. I’m not going to throw out a perfectly good sign. And everyone we pass gets to see the message on it.” He curled his bicep theatrically. “Besides, it’s a good arm workout.”

“Hey, if you want a workout, feel free to come up to my farm anytime. I’ll tire you out.”

Castiel grinned wickedly. He threw Dean a sidelong glance that was at least as intimidating as any head-on stare.

“Uh….” Dean rubbed his nose. “That didn’t come out exactly right.”

“Farmwork, right? Tossing around bales of hay?” He winked. “I know what you meant.”

“A bale of hay weighs around 100 pounds. If you can toss one of those around at your size, I’m not sure you’re human.”

“That’s an open question.” Castiel held the door for him. “Wow, catch that sun.”

He was right. The clouds were nearly all gone now, save for a few stray wisps that were barely visible in the warm glare. Dean pulled the sunglasses from his jacket pocket and pressed them to the bridge of his nose. Castiel laughed uproariously.

“What?”

“You forget a raincoat when it’s pouring out, but you remember your shades.”

Dean made a pouting face. “I’m an optimist.”

“You’re really something, Dean Winchester.”

He hurried across the street, still laughing; the hand was already flashing red. When he saw that Dean wasn’t following, he stopped in the middle of the crosswalk to beckon to him.

The rest of the walk to the restaurant was taken up by more of Castiel’s lessons in politics, culture, and geography. (“That’s the Securities and Exchange Commission building, where they regulate the masters of the universe. In theory.” “We meet at that coffeehouse a lot. That aphorism about socialism taking up too many evenings? 100% true.”) Dean didn’t talk much. He just listened and smiled, feeling the sun on his face.

When they arrived, Castiel shrugged off his trench coat and draped it over his arm. He held up two fingers to the waiter who approached. Dean looked around at the sandy brown walls and the soft lamps standing sentinel in the corners, the color of golden currants.

“I hope we get a table,” Castiel said. “Sometimes everything is booked here.”

The waiter returned with two menus. She led them to a small table at the very front, beside a bay window that looked out onto the thoroughfare.

“Wow.” Castiel lay his coat on the window’s seat and opened his menu. “Not only do we get a table, but we’re seated at the best place in the house.”

Dean grinned. “I guess I’m your good luck charm.”

“You know? I have this strange feeling that you’re right.”

The waiter returned with water. Before Dean could react, Castiel snapped up both of their menus and handed them to her.

“We’ll have the vegetarian sampler for two.”

“We will?”

“It’s normal to share. And I don’t eat meat, so….”

The waiter smiled faintly as she walked away, and Dean sipped his water until she was out of earshot.

“Honestly, I was glad you took the lead there. I had no idea how to pronounce any of that.”

“Not much of an alpha male, are you? That’s okay.” Castiel shook his head dismissively. “All that alpha, big man crap is total horseshit. Evolutionarily and otherwise.”

Dean was unsure how to respond to that. There were layers in everything Castiel said, and Dean didn’t know whether his latest statement was a compliment or a subtle dig.

“So.” Castiel downed half his glass of water, then sat back. “What sorts of things do people talk about on a first date, anyway?”

“Why, haven’t you ever been on one?”

Castiel smirked.

“I mean—not that this is a date, first or otherwise. Just so we’re clear.”

“Didn’t say it was.” His gaze fell to Dean’s hand, which Dean realized had been tapping the edge of the table since the waiter had seated them. “Well, what sorts of things do two single people talk about when eating a meal together at a restaurant for the first time, under the circumstances that they’re not on a date?”

Dean snorted. “Call it a date if it means so damn much to you.”

“I will, then. And you’re still dodging the question.”

“Fine, Cass. I’ll humor you. Family, occupation, what I do for fun—what do you want to know?”

“Family. You already started on that earlier, anyway. When you told me about Sam.”

“Yeah. Well, we’re from Kansas originally. Sam and I were both born in Lawrence.”

“College town.”

“Yup. I don’t have too many memories of it. After my mom died, our dad moved us around the country a lot. Taking odd jobs, staying with old friends of his sometimes. I don’t think he ever really got over losing her.”

“I can’t imagine.” Castiel raised his glass to his lips again. “So, how’d you end up on a farm in Virginia?”

“It was my grandfather’s farm. Henry Winchester. I think our family goes back a ways there…well, the city’s named Winchester, after all. There’s probably some connection. Anyway, he died when I was thirteen and left everything to my dad, even though they hadn’t spoken in years. Dad moved us there and took over the berry farm. First permanent home I could remember.”

“And your father?”

“He died a couple years ago. Heart attack. He…drank a lot. Sam’s the only immediate family I have left. We still have a few close family friends scattered here and there we can turn to, at least.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Still, at least the two of you have each other.”

Dean sipped his water. “How about you?”

“Ah. Well, I also lost my mom early on. No memories of her. Four older brothers—Michael, Luke, Gabe, and Rafe. They’re all a lot older than me.”

“You close with them?”

“Not in the least. As a rule of thumb, we can’t stand each other.”

“That’s a shame.”

“We can’t all be like you and Sam. Besides, I’m sure you’d agree that it’s their loss.”

“Definitely.” Dean chuckled. “What about your dad?”

The question was predictable, but Castiel seemed caught off guard. He stared out the restaurant’s bay window. The sun, sliced off by the restaurant’s ceiling, illuminated half his face and left the rest in darkness.

“He’s alive. He’s…quite accomplished in his field. We don’t talk much.”

Dean nodded. His curiosity was piqued, but he was getting the distinct impression that this was a sore spot.

“I guess I sort of know what you do for a living already,” Castiel said. He was changing the subject, but Dean didn’t point that out.

“Do you? I don’t really talk about it much on my Instagram.”

“There’s a link to your farm’s website in your profile. I took a gander.”

“You stalked me?”

“It’s not stalking if you gave out the link, silly. What are ‘heirloom berries,’ anyway?”

“Uh, the short version is that they’re basically berry cultivars that were developed before the mid-twentieth century, when large-scale agriculture really took off. But it’s really about diversity. Most people think the fruits and vegetables you see in the grocery store are what those plants look like, but they’re really just a sliver of what’s out there. Commercial varieties get selected for things like resilience to picking stress or how well they hold up in cold storage. Not necessarily taste.”

“Huh. So you mean I could’ve been eating better berries all this time?”

“Probably. You could’ve been eating my berries.”

Dean hadn’t stumbled into that one. He’d said it on purpose. And, judging by the look on his face, Castiel knew that. Just when Dean was beginning to second-guess his words, the waiter brought the platter of food to their table.

“Looks great,” Dean said. “We should take a picture.”

“We?”

“Well, I’ll take a picture of you with the food and tag you. Unless you don’t want to.”

“No, my followers love you. Photograph away.”

_New experiences with a new friend. @Castiel #ethiopianfood_

“The colors on the plate are so vibrant,” Dean said, once he’d posted. “It’s like a color wheel.”

“Or a rainbow.”

“Or that.” Dean winked.

“Well, let’s dig in. Just rip off a piece of the injera and dip it into anything you like the look of.”

“It’s—” Dean rolled the bread between his fingers. “It’s spongy. Neat.”

They ate for a while, restricting their comments to the food until Dean had tried each of the dishes. Eventually, they slipped into an easy quiet, and Dean decided to return the conversation to its previous topic.

“Uh, so what about you? You do anything? Besides your PhD, I mean.”

“Well, I normally teach undergraduate sections. Not this semester, though. I’m finally buckling down and writing.” Castiel sighed. “I can give you the whole elevator pitch for my research if you really want.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“I usually try not to think about it when I get a day off. When you study the same thing for six years, you end up needing that mental space.” He chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t mean to sound so negative. It’s a project that studies comparative refugee and asylum regimes over time, so it’s like my days off aren’t even days off. Serves me right for making ‘attending pro-immigrant protests’ what I do for fun. That was the third thing you said people talk about on their first dates, right?”

Dean laughed. “You’re really committed to this being a date.”

“Well.” Castiel’s eyes dropped to Dean’s mouth. “I like you.”

Dean cleared his throat. He took a long drink of water.

“Apologies. Filterless, like I said.”

“You, uh—” Dean licked his lips. “This whole immigration issue. It seems pretty close to your heart.”

“Oh, I’m just a bleeding-heart leftist on every issue. But migration—yes, I suppose it is.” Castiel turned to look at the sun again. “I don’t believe in borders. When it comes down to it, we’re all God’s children.”

There it was again. It seemed so incongruous that Dean felt impelled to bring it up, despite the risks.

“You seem pretty religious.”

“Me? Not really. I mean, I think organized religion is—”

“The opium of the masses?”

Castiel laughed. “Good one. That’s a classic.”

“I remember a few things from high school social studies.”

“So, you’re a tall, charming berry farmer who quotes Marx. I’m starting to wonder if you’re real.”

“You could prick me and see if I bleed.”

“I think we should leave that for the second date.” Castiel gathered up another bite of bread and collard greens. “Anyway, if you’re asking me whether I believe in God—I do. There has to be something in the fabric of the universe that binds us all together. Something greater than ourselves that gives us the impulse to be good to one another. To take care of one another.”

“People do terrible things to each other every day, though.”

“And they always have. Yet we’ve made it this far. And, in many ways, we’re better off than ever as a species. Perhaps that’s a privileged perspective, but I like to think it isn’t. I like to think that love is greater than fear. I would hope that that’s a sentiment everyone can agree with, regardless of what one thinks of particular religious beliefs.”

A long silence settled over the table again, though Dean didn’t feel awkward. He was thinking over Castiel’s words, testing them against the shadows in his mind. Had God wanted him to be an orphan before the age of 30? At the wake, a priest had placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder and said that the Lord sometimes worked in mysterious ways. Dean had wanted to kick his ass.

That God was real, and yet the evil in the world could only be held at bay by small acts of kindness—it all seemed like a gigantic internal contradiction, and it only made Castiel more interesting. Dean sat back and smiled at him.

“What’s funny?”

“Just thinking. We’ve been talking politics _and_ religion. We pretty much failed First Date 101.”

Castiel pressed his fingers to his napkin. “According to you, we’re not on a date at all.”

“I just don’t want to label it. I’m having a good time. Whatever this is, I’m having a good time.”

Castiel averted his eyes to the window. The afternoon sun etched his expression in gold, and Dean realized that, for only the second time that day, he’d brought him somewhere close to shyness.

Castiel paid. He reminded Dean, over his protests, that he’d been the one who’d invited him to lunch. Dean said he’d cook him a magnificent multicourse dinner in exchange. He was still holding Castiel’s umbrella—now dry and tied up neatly—for him. It all felt so effortless that it was only when they were out on the sidewalk again that Dean realized they hadn’t talked about what came next.

“So,” Castiel said. He was close—close enough that Dean could smell the restaurant’s breath mint in his mouth. “You feel like coming back to my place?”

Dean’s eyes widened. He gripped the umbrella handle with so much force that he thought it would crack at any second. Finally, he stepped back.

“Er. I, uh—I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“Oh, come on. I’m not the neatest person, but my apartment’s not that scary.”

When his attempt at humor failed to cut the tension, he tilted his head and searched Dean’s expression.

“Wait. No. That isn’t what I meant. Thinking about it now, I see how it came off. But I wasn’t—”

“It’s okay.” Dean handed him his umbrella stiffly. “You probably have a lot to do. Writing and stuff. And I—I have to get Sammy’s fridge into shape. And come up with another recipe for the blog.”

Castiel accepted his umbrella with a sigh. “Well, I had a wonderful time today. You’re the best surprise I’ve had in a long time. And I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” He looked away, at the road back to Union Station.

“No, Cass—you didn’t make me uncomfortable. Really.”

“I’ll—” He rubbed his neck. “I guess I’ll see you around on Instagram.”

Castiel turned to leave. Dean watched him for a few steps, his lip quivering with dozens of words that all wanted to come out at the same time.

“Tomorrow!” Dean shouted.

Castiel turned around. “What?”

“What are you…doing tomorrow?”

“Um.” He walked back and leaned against the lamppost. “Something with you, I guess?”

Dean grinned. “Sam and I have our family dinner on Sunday nights. You could join us.”

“Meeting the family already? I think that’s supposed to come later.”

“Well, I guess we’re breaking all the rules. Let me give you my number.”

Castiel texted him once he’d added Dean to his contacts. Dean put on his sunglasses and walked with Castiel to the corner, where they waited for the light with as little distance between them as before the misunderstanding. The air was warm and smelled of young grass and Carolina allspice, and Dean thought that this exact moment was the passing of winter to spring for another year.

“It should be something that’s like…feeling the sun on your face.”

“What?”

“You said you had to come up with another recipe.” Castiel closed his eyes and tilted his nose to the sky. “This is such a nice day. Make it something that’s like feeling the first warm sun of spring.”

Dean smiled at him from behind his shades. He could think of a few things that felt like that.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Magdalenas

_I’m staying with my brother for the weekend, so I’m working within the (extremely) strict limits of what he has in his kitchen. I’m pretty sure that anything that isn’t in a microwavable package has been here since the last time I visited—unless it’s a salad ingredient, since apparently he can manage that and nothing else._

_(I love you, Sammy.)_

_It didn’t look promising at first, but today turned out to be a beautiful day here in DC. A new friend told me that I should post a recipe that’s like “feeling the sun on your face.” I think these Spanish lemon muffins fit the bill. They’re quick enough to whip up for breakfast and have with your coffee._

Cook time: 30 minutes

Makes 12 muffins

1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar

1 cup non-dairy milk

½ cup extra virgin olive oil OR neutral plant oil (rice bran oil, avocado oil, etc.)*

1 large lemon

½ cup granulated sugar*

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

1 ½ teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

¼ teaspoon salt

Slightly less than ¼ cup powdered sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and line a muffin pan with 12 paper liners (or grease well with vegetable oil or spray).

In a large mixing bowl, combine apple cider vinegar and non-dairy milk. Set aside. Zest and juice the lemon, then add both to the mixing bowl. Add oil and whisk to combine, then do the same with the sugar. Add the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt to a sifter and sift into the mixing bowl. Whisk until no large lumps remain. The consistency should resemble pancake batter; depending on how much juice your lemon gave you, it may be too thin at this point, so add a few spoonfuls of flour if necessary.

Divide the batter evenly among the muffin liners and bake for 20-25 minutes, until the tops are slightly puffy and golden and a toothpick inserted into the center of one of the interior muffins comes out clean. I usually start testing at around 18 minutes to be safe, but my oven is on the strong side.

Let cool on a cooling rack. Once they’re cool enough to handle, sprinkle the powdered sugar over the top.

*The traditional way of making this is with olive oil, but if you’re not a fan of that taste in a baked good, you can easily substitute any neutral plant oil.

*The amount of sugar is mostly down to personal preference. I usually use between ½ to ¾ of a cup for a batch this size—aiming for the lower end of that range if Sam is with me, since he complains about refined sugars. Also, keep in mind that you’ll be adding powdered sugar at the end, which will sweeten it further.


	5. Blue Potato and Green Chile Enchiladas

“Wait. So, was it a date or not?”

Dean looked up from the wooden bins of potatoes and gave a glare across the row of root vegetables. Sam was pressing his palm to the crown of his head in a gesture of mock confusion.

“Like, I know you said last night that it wasn’t. But seriously, Dean, you can’t stop talking about him.”

Then again, maybe he really was confused. Dean certainly was.

“I already told you,” Dean sighed. “All it was, was lunch with a new friend.”

“Okay, but….”

“But what?”

“He’s coming over for dinner tonight, isn’t he?”

“And?”

“And we’re on a special shopping trip just for that.”

“I wish it were just for that.” Dean looked down at the potatoes again. “Your kitchen is tragic, Sammy. There’s no other word for it.”

“Stop changing the subject. There’s something up with you, Dean. You’re trying to impress this guy.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, imagine if we fed him with the ingredients in your kitchen. Dinner would be salad and bunless veggie burgers with last year’s freezer burn.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He bagged a selection of blue potatoes and weighed them on the scale.

“Alright, fine.” Sam moved down the aisle, stopping at a display of tropical fruits. “Don’t talk about it. I’ll figure out what’s going on for myself once I meet him.”

“Nothing’s ‘going on.’ And don’t pester Cass with your weird questions. I don’t need you scaring him off.”

Dean placed the potatoes in his cart and looked up again. Sam was holding a banana in one hand and a plantain in the other, comparing them. When he saw Dean approaching, he presented them to him and grinned.

“I don’t want those,” Dean said gruffly.

“You sure?” Sam shrugged and returned them to the display. “It just seemed to me like you’re up for some experimenting. In the kitchen, I mean.”

“And people we meet think you’re the mature one. They don’t know what I have to put up with.”

Dean brushed past him and proceeded to the end of the aisle, where the shelves of chilled produce continued down the length of the supermarket. Sam followed along, the wheels of his cart squeaking.

“Don’t give me that, Dean. You’ve ribbed me ten times as hard all these years. Turnabout’s fair play. Don’t get snippy just because you’re on the receiving end for once.” Sam chuckled. “Receiving end.”

“Okay, Sammy. Just get it all out of your system now, because I’m going to need you to act at least somewhat normal this afternoon.”

“Don’t worry.” Sam inspected a clamshell package of spring mix before adding it to his cart. “I won’t embarrass you. Much.”

They split up soon after that: Sam wandered off to the health food aisle, chattering something about peanut butter protein bars; Dean lingered in the produce section, selecting the ingredients for that night’s dinner and picking out a few things that he felt reasonably certain Sam could cook for himself.

“Nice poblanos,” Dean murmured. He picked up one of the dark green peppers, feeling its waxy skin beneath his fingertips. After a moment’s deliberation, he bagged a few of them and lay them beside the deep blue potatoes. They looked good together, he thought.

“Need to stop anywhere else?” Sam said, once they had loaded up the car.

“Nope. Got everything.”

“What’re we having for dinner?”

“Enchiladas. That reminds me, did you know Cass speaks Spanish?”

Sam rolled his eyes as he backed out of the parking space. “Seriously, Dean, it’s like a reflex at this point. You’re inserting him into every conversation.”

“All I said was that he knows Spanish!”

“Try not talking about him until we get back to my place. I dare you.”

“Screw you. Don’t try to tell me what I can talk about.”

Sam gave a smug smile. “Because you know you can’t.”

Dean ignored him. He turned to the window and watched the leafy edges of the traffic circle slip by. It was a cloudless, humid day; the air was wet and fecund. He’d be returning to the farm tonight. Back to the real world.

Last night, after Sam had exchanged his suit for sweats and they’d called in their Chinese order, Dean had told him about his day with Castiel. Normally, Dean would’ve dedicated only a few sentences to the task—more words only fueled Sam’s nosiness, and it wasn’t as if he needed to know every detail anyway—but when Sam’s phone vibrated with the order drop-off, Dean realized that he’d been talking for most of the last half-hour.

They’d eaten in front of a medical drama on Netflix, Sam casting odd looks at him throughout. The same one he was giving him now.

“Watch the road,” Dean said testily.

Sam grinned as they turned right onto his street. “When’s Cass coming over, anyway?”

“I told him anytime after four. That’s when I’ll start cooking. I figured we’d have dinner early so I can get home before it’s too late.”

“Right, you’re driving back today.” Sam sighed. “Just when I was getting used to having you around.”

“Getting used to me making you muffins for breakfast, you mean.”

“Yeah, that.” Sam pulled on the parking brake. “Although, I guess since you put the recipe up on your blog, I could make them for myself now.”

“Really?” Dean said skeptically. “You?”

“Why _not_ me?”

“I mean, I’m not even sure you know which end of a whisk to hold, for starters.”

“Then I guess I’m in need of a good teacher.” Sam popped the trunk and loaded Dean up with grocery bags. “That’s the point of your blog, right? Inspiring people who aren’t natural-born cooks to make simple, healthy, delicious meals?”

Sam had him there, so Dean just shrugged.

“Hey, if I can inspire you to cook, I guess I can reach just about anyone.”

“Exactly! ...Wait.”

It was just past three by the time they’d put all the groceries away, so Dean immediately started on preparing the ingredients for dinner. He rinsed, salted, and brought to a boil the black beans; he readied a cup and a half of jasmine rice in Sam’s miniature rice cooker; he turned on the oven’s broiler and washed the vegetables. Sam unpacked the dishwasher and vacuumed the floors throughout the house, but not before telling Alexa to play classic rock.

“For you,” Sam said. “Since I made you listen to Norah Jones in the car.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean said sullenly. “I’m used to it by now.”

“Does that mean you like—”

“No,” Dean interrupted. “No, it does not.”

Sam finished his cleaning before Dean wrapped up his prep, so he popped open a beer for him and watched as Dean switched out the blistered peppers for a tray of cubed potatoes on the oven’s top rack.

“I need to check my phone.” Dean wiped his hands. “Cass might’ve texted me.”

Sam smiled down at the assembled bottles of wine and glasses on the counter.

“Nothing,” Dean mumbled. He returned his phone to its charger by the television. “It’s almost four, though.”

“To be honest, that’s good. He can’t text to say he’s bailing now; it’s too late. He’s definitely coming.”

“Okay. I didn’t think he was going to bail.”

Sam grimaced as he uncorked the white wine. “Calm down. You’re going to psych yourself out.”

“Yeah.” Dean breathed. “I need to hit the head. If the timer goes off, take the potatoes out of the oven and put them on top of the stove.”

Dean was still scrutinizing himself in the bathroom mirror, tugging at little pieces of his hair with his damp fingers, when Castiel rang the doorbell at four sharp.

“I got it,” Dean said, closing the bathroom door behind him.

“Yeah, uh—” Sam was cut off by the egg timer. “I’ll get the potatoes.”

Dean jogged down the stairs. Even through the door’s frosted glass panes, he recognized Castiel’s artfully tousled bedhead. Dean lengthened his spine, drew back his shoulders, and opened the door.

“Cass, hey.”

“Hello, Dean.”

He stepped back to let him in. Castiel was wearing a crisp white dress shirt with two buttons undone and slim-fitting navy blue slacks. A light grey blazer was draped over one of his arms, and he suspended a brown box adorned with a crimson ribbon from the other. He looked around the vestibule before turning to Dean.

“You, uh.” Dean cleared his throat. “You look good. I feel underdressed now.”

“Sorry, Dean. I suppose I assumed that Sunday dinner with your family would be…something I should dress up for. Maybe it’s because I’m from New England. We can be a little traditional about that kind of thing.”

“Don’t apologize.” The warm breeze licked in, ruffling Castiel’s hair, and Dean closed the door. “I’m, uh—”

“You look good too,” Castiel interjected.

“Huh?”

“You said I look good. I figured I’d return the compliment. Before the moment passed.”

“Yeah.” Dean scratched his cheek. “Thanks.”

Castiel held out the brown box like a lantern. “I brought this.”

“Cass.” Dean stretched his hands out to receive it. “I told you not to bring anything.”

“Well, I didn’t want to show up emptyhanded. It’s a strawberry rhubarb pie from my favorite bakery.”

“Holy crap. That’s awesome.” Dean looked up. “How’d you know I like pie?”

“You talk about it a lot on your Instagram. And who doesn’t like pie?”

“I know, right?” Dean glanced up at the landing. “Um, want to go up? Sam’s apartment’s upstairs.”

“Lead the way.”

Dean snorted. “No looking at my butt.”

“It hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean muttered. He started up the stairway.

“See?” Castiel leapt up to the same step as him. “Eyes straight ahead. Your butt’s completely safe from my wanton gaze.”

Dean stopped at the top of the stairs and shrugged. Castiel tilted his head.

“I’m not saying I’m not flattered, Cass.”

“Hang on; let me work out all those negatives.”

“I’m just saying….” Dean trailed off. “I’m not sure what I’m saying.”

After a few seconds, he felt Castiel’s hand on his shoulder.

“Dean, like I said, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’m just a flirty person. I’m probably even more flirtatious with women, if you can believe that. Anyway, I can try to dial it back if it bothers you.”

“I thought you were gay,” Dean blurted out.

“I am,” Castiel said slowly.

“But—women?”

“It’s just flirting. It’s about making other people feel good—making them feel better about themselves, and hopefully about me. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.”

Dean looked down at the hardwood, feeling the sharp sting of disappointment in his chest. _He’d_ thought it meant something more than that.

“Besides, it’s almost easier for me to flirt with women than men. It’s safer. We both know I’m not actually interested.”

“Safer than with a dumbass like me, you mean.”

“No, Dean, that isn’t what I mean.” Castiel sighed. “I don’t know why you put yourself down so much.”

They stood beside each other on the landing for a moment, Dean looking down and past Castiel’s gaze, his eyes fixed on the grey blazer hanging from his forearm. The faint chords of Dire Straits’ “Romeo and Juliet” murmured through the walls of Sam’s apartment and the slit beneath his front door. Eventually, Castiel made his offer again.

“Like I said, I can try to tone things down if you want. I’d normally revolt against changing myself for anyone, but….” He chuckled and leaned against the banister. “I guess you’re different.”

Dean swallowed and shook his head. “No, Cass. Please. I don’t want you to do that. You aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met. I mean, you make me laugh; you make me feel—I don’t know, you make me feel….”

Castiel raised his eyebrows.

“What I’m saying is—” Dean clapped his free hand to Castiel’s shoulder. “Don’t ever change.”

He laughed. “Dean, we met yesterday.”

“I know, but I have good instincts when it comes to people. I can tell you’re genuine.”

Castiel flinched and leaned away from Dean’s hand. Dean wasn’t sure what he’d said that was wrong.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence. Um, Sam’s waiting for us, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Dean walked to the door of Sam’s apartment. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course. I just don’t want to be that annoying person who keeps your brother waiting the first time we’re having dinner together.”

“‘The first time?’ So, I guess that means we’ll be doing this again?”

They both turned to the sound of a strangled laugh from the other side of the door. Dean grasped the doorknob, banging into Sam’s shoulder as he entered.

“Ow.” Sam rubbed his arm. “I mean, hi.”

“Why were you standing there?” Dean demanded.

“I was about to go look for you guys. Thought you got lost or something.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. You were eavesdropping, more like.”

“I won’t dignify that with a response.” Sam thrust out his hand. “You must be Castiel. I’m Sam. Sam Winchester. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And I, you.” After a second’s hesitation, Castiel pressed his palm to Sam’s. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too. Dean’s been going on about you so much, I feel like I already know you.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Sam.” Dean pushed past them to the kitchen, laying the pie on the dining table along the way.

“I’m sure he talks about you more, in any case.” Castiel tilted his head. “Have you done any modeling? I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.” Sam looked over his shoulder. “Dean, he thinks I could be a model.”

“Who, you?” Dean snorted. “For a big and tall store, maybe.”

“Sounds like jealousy to me. Please, have a seat. Can I get you a drink? We have red and white. There’s beer, too. Or orange juice, if you don’t feel like drinking.”

Castiel sat down on the couch beside Dean’s duffel bag. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“White it is.” Sam picked up one of the wine glasses. “Riesling. One of our clients gave it to me. Oh, you can just move Dean’s bag to the floor if it’s in the way.”

“No, it’s fine.” He stroked the bag’s side. “Were you in the military, Dean?”

“Er, no.”

“Our dad was.”

“He was a Marine.” Dean chopped the green onions, then tipped them into the mixing bowl. “Kind of a hard-ass, as you might expect.”

“Ah. You had a martinet for a father.”

“Get you and your ten-dollar words.” Sam carried Castiel’s glass of wine to him.

“It’s a bad habit,” Castiel said. “Oh, thank you. Have you poured yourself any yet?”

“I was just about to. Dean, you good?”

“Yeah, I still have half my beer.” He’d moved on to the roasted peppers now. “I’m nursing it. Have to drive back tonight.”

“Ah.” Castiel walked to the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room and leaned over it. “Yes, I imagine spring is a busy time of year on your farm.”

“You know, it actually isn’t. Berries don’t need to be replanted each season, so it’s really just summer that’s the killer. But I have to be back for the Apple Blossom Festival.”

“The what?”

“It’s this big event in Winchester every April,” Sam explained. “Parade, dances, music, that kind of thing.”

“Like a county fair?”

“Sort of,” Dean said.

“Just bigger.” Sam raised his glass. “Cheers.”

Dean wiped his hands and picked up his beer bottle. He looked at Castiel.

“To—to new experiences,” Dean stammered.

Sam looked at him strangely. “You okay?”

“Yeah, my throat’s just dry.” Dean wiggled his beer, and Sam and Castiel clinked their glasses into it. He raised the bottle to his lips and watched Castiel as he drank. Castiel stared back at him.

“Anyway,” Dean finally said. “Winchester and Sons has a booth there every year, so I have to be back to do setup, man it when Charlie and Kevin aren’t there, network, all that stuff.”

“Plus, you probably don’t want to leave Crowley alone for more than a couple days. He might get mad and poop outside his litterbox.”

Castiel smiled. “You have a cat?”

“Yeah, I adopted him after Dad died.” Dean checked the temperature of the oil. “We never really had pets growing up. I always wanted one.”

“He’s black,” Sam said. He nudged Dean with his elbow. “Hey, maybe that’s why it’s been so long since you last got lucky, Dean.”

Dean shoved him away. “Seriously?”

“Sorry.” Sam chewed his lip as he turned to Castiel. “Just screwing around; you know how brothers are. I’m obviously not serious. I mean, Dean gets lucky _all_ the time. He’s prolific.”

“Dude!” Dean picked up the tortilla at the top of the stack and threw it at Sam’s face. “Just stop talking!”

Sam looked down at the kitchen floor where the fallen tortilla had come to rest. “Sorry. I guess I’m just excited.”

Dean gritted his teeth and turned to Castiel, who, of course, was laughing.

“This brings back memories. Happier times.” He gave Sam an indulgent nod. “I have four brothers. This is what it was like most of the time growing up.”

Sam shuddered. “Now I’m imagining four Deans. I think a chill just went down my spine.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, winking at Dean. “I can think of worse people to have more than one of.”

“That’s because you didn’t have to share a room with him growing up.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Okay, that’s enough. The oil’s ready, so I’m going to need some help with the next part. Who wants to be my assistant?”

Castiel glanced at Sam, who gestured with his free hand as he stepped backward. “Go ahead. He’s all yours.”

“Well, he did promise me cooking lessons before an audience of several thousand,” Castiel said. He rounded the bar and peered at Dean’s mise en place. “Oh, boy. This looks complicated.”

“No, it’s really not. I promise. There’s even a saying in Spanish: ‘no son enchiladas.’ It basically just means that the thing in question isn’t as easy as enchiladas are. Which is, um, easy.”

“Now that you mention it, I think I’ve heard that one before.”

They both turned around to the sound of Sam’s giggling.

“Dean just casually whipping out the Spanish.” Sam poured himself more wine. “He’s a natural when it comes to Romance languages, Cass. Watch out.”

“You’re the youngest, right, Cass?”

“I am.”

“Did you ever act like this with your older brothers? You know, obnoxious beyond belief?”

“Hey!” Sam said.

Castiel angled his head to the ceiling. “Truthfully, it was more likely to have been the other way around. Gabe’s always the one looking for a reaction wherever he can get it. Luke, too, though he was only living at home until I was nine or so, so I don’t have as many memories of adolescent trauma involving him.”

“Right? Older brothers, I’m telling you. Dean’s been tormenting me my whole life.” Sam stuck out his fist. “Pound it.”

Castiel chuckled. He glanced at Dean.

“Don’t betray me by fist bumping to that,” Dean warned.

Castiel held up his hands. “Sorry, Sam. Looks like I’ve been told.”

“Yeah.” Sam leaned back against the refrigerator door and smiled at them. “Well, carry on, you two. I’m getting hungry here.”

“Um.” Dean flicked his chin to the sink. “How about you wash up, then I’ll tell you what we’re getting into here.”

Castiel washed his hands and rejoined Dean at the counter. Dean explained the process: fry the tortillas in oil until pliable, soak in enchilada sauce, stuff with vegetables and cheese, roll closed and arrange in the casserole dish. Castiel nodded, looking increasingly mystified as Dean reached the end.

“Okay, so…which side do you want? The frying or the rolling?”

“Well, I can’t see anything good happening if you put me in charge of a pan of hot oil, so I’ll do the rolling.”

“Sounds good. How about I show you how to do the first one? That way you’ll know what it’s supposed to look like.”

“Alright.” Castiel rubbed his hands together. “I’m ready.”

Dean dropped the first tortilla in the oil. It puffed and sprouted air pockets almost instantly, and Dean turned down the heat.

“Just a few seconds on each side,” he explained. “You’re only trying to soften it up, make it pliable. You want it to bend and not break once you start filling it up.”

Sam snickered behind them. “I bet.”

“Are you much of a cook, Sam?” Castiel glanced over his shoulder. “Has Dean rubbed off on you?”

“I wish,” Dean said. He dropped the tortilla into the bowl of chilled sauce. “He’s a disaster in the kitchen.”

“Thanks for that, Dean. Nah, I don’t really enjoy cooking. Like, I’ll do enough to get by when I have to, but there’s so much great takeout nearby that I’d rather just leave the cooking to the experts.”

“We’re birds of a feather.” Castiel smiled. “Okay, what do I do with this?”

“Yeah, so now comes the rolling. You want to take the tortilla out of the sauce—”

“With my hand?”

“Yeah. You’re about to get your hands dirty anyway.”

“Okay.” Castiel placed the tortilla in the middle of the casserole dish. “That sauce is cold.”

“I chilled it beforehand. The hot oil’s going to warm it up over time.” Dean indicated the bowl of vegetables and cheese. “So, now you take a couple spoonfuls of that and drop it in a line down the center of the tortilla. Not too much, or it won’t close.”

“What’s in there?”

“Potatoes, poblano peppers, green onions, and Monterey Jack cheese. A little bit of cumin, oregano, and ground ancho pepper as well.”

Castiel craned his neck down to the bowl. “What’s the purple stuff?”

“That’s the potatoes.”

“Are they…okay?”

“They’re potatoes. They’re blue potatoes. That’s how they look.”

“Ah.” He spooned some of the filling onto the tortilla. “It’s like you were saying yesterday about the berries. There’s so much more out there that people don’t know about.”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded to the casserole dish. “Now, just curl the edges of the tortilla around the filling.”

“Like—” Castiel furrowed his brow. “Like this?”

“No, like a burrito. Sort of. Here.” Dean nudged him, then brought his hands to the sides of the tortilla as Castiel withdrew his.

“Ah. I see.”

“And then just turn it over so the seam’s on the bottom, and line it up against the edge. We’ll fill the rest of the pan starting there.”

“Alright.” Castiel swatted Dean’s hand away. “I think I’ve got it.”

Dean rinsed his hands off in the sink. He could see Sam staring at him in his peripheral vision but pretended not to notice. For a few minutes, he and Castiel worked without much further talk, Dean humming along to “Tequila Sunrise” and sipping his beer.

“Let me know if I’m going too fast,” Dean said, once the fifth tortilla was finished frying. Castiel’s enchiladas were—well, they weren’t hopeless. But they weren’t as neat and tight as they could be.

“Sorry, Dean. I’m just not as quick as you.”

“It’s okay. You know, a lot of what goes into good cooking is confidence. Try not to be intimidated by the food or afraid of messing up. It’ll sense your fear.”

“I thought the cliché was that good cooking was all about the love you put into it.”

“That too. Love, confidence, and good ingredients. You can do pretty much anything with those.”

Sam snickered again, this time over the glug of the wine bottle.

“You sound like you’re having a good time,” Castiel said.

“Oh, I am.” Sam sauntered past the bar and milled around in the center of the living room. “What kind of music do you listen to, Cass? We don’t have to keep listening to what Dean likes.”

“I don’t mind this. I grew up listening to my father’s seventies rock.”

“So did we. That’s where Dean gets it from.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Sam, stop distracting Cass. We’re working here.”

“Yeah, you probably need him all to yourself. I’ll just, uh, I’ll just be in my office. I’m going to send some emails.”

“Sorry about him,” Dean said, once Sam had disappeared into the hallway. “He gets kind of silly once he’s had some wine.”

“He’s lovely,” Castiel said. “How am I doing?”

“Uh.”

“That badly?”

“No! It’s just—if you pull them a little tighter, we can fit more in the dish.”

Castiel rolled his shoulders gamely. “I can do that. Tighter it is.”

Dean eased another tortilla into the oil. He quirked an eyebrow at Castiel when he noticed him watching him.

“Where’d you learn how to make this, anyway? It’s not the kind of dish I’d expect a white Kansas boy to grow up with.”

“I learned it from a friend of mine. Well, his mom, actually.” Dean flipped the tortilla. “Gus. His parents were blueberry pickers who followed the season up the Eastern Seaboard. I met him the summer after we’d moved to the farm. We were both fourteen.”

“Ha. I’m imagining what you were like at fourteen.”

“I was pretty much a kid still. I was a late bloomer. Anyway, Gus and I met in the fields. Picking blueberries.”

“Your dad made you do that?”

“Of course. Wasn’t like I could work anywhere else, and he wouldn’t have let me do nothing all summer.”

“Why not? Time to daydream and play and just be a kid—that’s important.”

“Well, my dad didn’t think so. Honestly, I didn’t care. I was making money and everyone who worked for us was really friendly.”

“I’m sure they were,” Castiel said. “You were the owner’s son.”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe. Well, one evening Gus invited me to dinner with his family, over at the worker housing. His mom was super nice. I remember her hugging me as soon as I walked in the door. I couldn’t remember the last time my dad had hugged me.”

Castiel shook his head and sighed.

“I’m not saying that for sympathy. It’s just what I remember thinking. When I told her I liked to cook, she started showing me how to make what she was making for dinner. That’s the first time I made enchiladas.”

“And now you’re passing that knowledge on to me, someone you only met yesterday. Isn’t the world full of surprises?” Castiel rolled another enchilada; the pan was almost full. “What happened to Gus? Do you still keep in touch with him?”

“Yeah, kind of. His parents settled in New Jersey a year later. They wanted the kids to be able to go to the same school, have the same teachers, throughout the year. And the East Coast blueberry industry is centered in New Jersey. We talked on…AOL Instant Messenger from time to time.”

“That’s a blast from the past.”

“We still email each other for birthdays, holidays. He went to college, graduated. He’s a pediatric nurse now.” Dean dropped the last tortilla into the oil. “I didn’t finish high school.”

“Well, things like that don’t define us. I’m most of the way through my PhD and we still found each other.”

Dean grinned. “Hey, once you finish, can I call you Doctor?”

“If that’s what wets your whistle.” Castiel was rolling the final enchilada; his technique, though still uncertain, had definitely improved. “That’s more than a year away, though, so I hope you’re planning on sticking around.”

“I’m tied to my farm. Not like I can go anywhere, even if I wanted to.”

Castiel gazed down at the stove. “That’s not what I meant.”

Before Dean could say anything to that, Sam reentered the kitchen.

“Done with work already?” Castiel said.

“More or less. I just thought it’d be rude for me to hide in my office for too long. I’m the host, after all.” Sam leaned over the bar. “Looking good.”

“Thank you. I think I got better at the rolling towards the end.”

“I’d say so,” Dean said. “Okay, so the last thing we do is pour the remaining sauce over the enchiladas, then top with the grated cheese I put aside earlier. Go ahead.”

Castiel drizzled the sauce over the casserole, and Dean sprinkled the top generously with cheese. Dean placed the dish in the oven while Castiel washed his hands.

“Forty minutes,” Dean said, to the question on Sam’s face. “There’s some chips and salsa on the coffee table if you’re hungry.”

Sam sat on the couch and turned down the music. He reached for the bowl of chips.

“You two have a cute relationship.” Castiel was drying his hands at Dean’s side. “I get the sense that you’ve spent a lot of your life looking out for him.”

“Yeah, I guess. Our dad was gone a lot. Working long hours or…doing other things. It was up to me.”

After a few seconds, Dean felt Castiel rubbing his upper back. His grip was cautious, yet deft and firm, and it found and kneaded the ball of tension where Dean’s neck met his right shoulder. Dean sighed in gratitude and—to his surprise—relief. If anything, Sam being only a few steps away, seemingly oblivious as he devoured the tortilla chips and tomatillo salsa, only lent the moment added intimacy.

“It baffles me, Dean.”

Dean turned to him. “What does?”

“You’re funny, kind, a good cook, an amazing older brother; you run your own business; and, if you don’t mind me saying this, you’re not too bad to look at.”

Dean tsked. “Cass, come on.”

“I’m serious. How in God’s name are you single?”

“I—” Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I don’t know. I guess I’m still looking for the right person.”

In spite of the faint music playing from the apartment’s sound system, a strange silence seemed to settle between the two of them. Finally, Castiel patted Dean’s back.

“Well, you can’t lose hope.” He reached for the bottle of Riesling, poured himself another glass. “I’m sure you’ll find her.”

He stepped around the bar and walked out of the kitchen before Dean could reply. Dean watched as he took a seat on the couch beside Sam, trying a chip from the bowl when Sam offered. Castiel nodded to some question, Sam glanced over his shoulder into the kitchen, and Dean found himself hiding behind the refrigerator door, staring at the rows of beer bottles as if they held the answers he was seeking.

The three of them talked about Castiel’s research before dinner, which inevitably led into a discussion of politics. Sam played the role of devil’s advocate—one which Dean knew he relished, given his occupation—while Dean was content to simply sit back and let Castiel’s encyclopedic knowledge of every issue wash over him. They tangled over Joe Biden’s entry into the Democratic primary, the feasibility of single-payer healthcare, the morality of a fence on the Mexican border, and the politics of a Green New Deal. The timer for the oven beeped just when Sam was holding up his hands in acquiescence.

“Just so you know,” he said. “I already agreed with you on pretty much all of this. Everything except Warren. I’m still not sure who I’m backing.”

“Ah. Well, I like plans. There’s a certain beauty to plans, even if most of them never come to fruition. They’re how we show our belief in the better world that’s coming into being.”

“Huh,” Sam said. “That’s a really nice thought.”

“Alright, you two.” Dean carried the enchiladas to the dining table. “Dinner’s served.”

At dinner, Castiel and Sam talked about the city, its haunts and sights, while Dean watched and listened. He didn’t mind the course that the conversation had taken. He enjoyed focusing on the flavors of his food during meals, anyway, and he found that he could observe Castiel more intently when he wasn’t the object of his attention.

“Statehood for the district is the only solution,” Castiel said, once they’d moved on to pie. “Doesn’t it incense you that we don’t have any power in Congress? You and your brother live an hour apart, yet he has a voice in what our government does, and you don’t.”

“No, I completely agree. I just don’t see how we get it done with Republicans in control of the Senate.” Sam tipped his head back. “Cass, this pie is amazing.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s fork squeaked against the china. “You know, I’m usually not a big rhubarb person, but this is awesome.”

Castiel winked. “Maybe I’ll take you to the bakery I got it from sometime.”

“If pie’s involved, Dean would follow you anywhere.”

“He’s right, you know.”

“I see.” Castiel dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Well, now I’m suffused with the sudden urge to learn piemaking.”

“That’s the spirit.” Sam pushed his chair back. “Anyone want a refill?”

Dean and Castiel both declined. They regarded each other once Sam left for the kitchen.

“Everything okay?” Castiel said. “You seem pensive.”

Dean put his hands on his hips. “Maybe I just really like pie.”

“Even so. Penny for your thoughts.”

“Just thinking about what I have to do in the next few days to get ready for the festival,” Dean said. “On top of the normal stuff on the farm.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. Then again, how were you meant to tell someone you’d only known for a day that you couldn’t stop thinking about them?

“I just realized something, Dean.”

“Oh?”

“It’s been exactly a week since I commented on your radish linguine post. Can you believe it? It feels like I’ve known you for so much longer.”

“Totally.” Dean licked his upper lip. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

“I look at food pictures on Instagram to relax. Usually while sprawled on my couch, waiting for Grubhub to deliver, after a day of frying my brain with writing. I must have happened upon yours by chance, or maybe some regional or network algorithm, I don’t know. I never would have expected it to lead to—” he gestured to the three place settings around the dining table. “All this.”

“Well, I’m glad it did.”

“So am I, Dean. Considering the odds of us ever meeting in the first place, I feel incredibly lucky to be here right now.”

An hour later, after the table had been cleared and the food had been packed away into plastic containers, after the three of them had said their goodbyes at the base of Sam’s stairs, Dean and Castiel were walking to the Impala.

“Hang on,” Dean said. “I’ll unlock your door.”

“Nice car,” Castiel said. “It’s a little, you know, performatively masculine, but still.”

Dean laughed as he circled the front of the car, then joined Castiel in the front seat.

“It was my dad’s,” he said, as he curled his fingers around the steering wheel. “Me and Sam pretty much grew up in this car, crisscrossing the middle of the country. I’ve fallen asleep in it more times than I can remember.”

“Not when you’re driving, I hope.”

Dean snorted. “No, Cass. Not when I’m driving. Smartass.”

They glided out of the parking space and to the stop line at the corner. Castiel told him where to turn, which roads to take, to get back to his apartment. The twilight sky was a soft lilac, and the traffic was sparse where there were any vehicles at all. For most of the drive, the car was quiet—whether a tense quiet or a comfortable one, Dean couldn’t tell.

“Thanks for the lift,” Castiel said. They’d turned onto his street. “I really didn’t mind walking back. I don’t live all that far from Sam.”

“I was driving home anyway.” Dean peered out the window. “Is this it?”

“Yeah, the one with the angel fountain out front.” Castiel smoothed the sleeves of his blazer. “Dean….”

“Yeah?”

“I, uh—dinner was delicious. Thank you. And you delivered on the cooking lessons you promised.”

Dean pursed his lips. “There’s still plenty more I could teach you.”

“I believe it.” He stared down at his lap. “Good luck with all your work this week. I hope everything at the festival goes smoothly.”

“Eh, I have Charlie and Kevin working it with me, so it probably won’t.”

Castiel chuckled. He unlocked his door and looked at Dean again.

“You know, the festival’s over on Sunday,” Dean said. “I’ll have more time then.”

Castiel’s eyes searched Dean’s face. “Yeah?”

“In case you want to make good on your offer to help me throw bales of hay around.”

“Is that a flirtation?” He pushed Dean’s shoulder with the flat of his palm. “I’m kidding. It just sounded funny.”

“Well, that’s what I was going for.”

Their eyes met again; Castiel shifted in his seat and tilted his head. Dean had meant that he was going for funny, not flirtatious, but he liked the ambiguity in retrospect. It got across what he felt but couldn’t say.

“All I have next week is writing,” Castiel said. “And I can do that anywhere.”

“It’s just me in a 4000-square-foot house. Plenty of quiet rooms for you to do your writing in. When you’re not earning your keep by helping me on the farm, that is.” Dean turned down the heater. “Sam drives out every Sunday. You could catch a ride with him.”

“Alright, Dean. Next week, then.” Castiel reached for the door handle. “Oh, before I forget. You’re not a serial killer, are you? It’s just—with the…perfect-guy-who’s-inexplicably-single thing, you start to wonder.”

“I am, actually. All the berry stuff’s just a cover. If you pop my trunk, you’ll see it’s full of guns, knives, ropes. Handcuffs, even.”

“Oh, okay. Just figured I’d check.” Castiel stepped out of the car, then ducked down to look back in. “I’m looking forward to it, Dean. I can’t wait to see your world.”

“Can’t wait to show it to you.”

Castiel gave a little wave of his hand, then shut the passenger door. Dean watched until Castiel had passed over his front threshold. He cracked his window to cool off and drove to the end of the street, turning eventually onto the artery that led to the interstate. The first stars were visible in the boughs of the whispering trees, and the wind off the Potomac smelled of pollen and new loam.

Somewhere around Leesburg, there was a line on the radio about angels in the architecture, and Dean found himself thinking about the stone fountain in Castiel’s front garden. That teenage feeling of every mundane and random thing in the world leading back to a single bright point in his mind’s eye—he knew what it was, and he didn’t care. He wanted to ride with it through the night until he ran out of road or gas, whichever came first.

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Blue Potato and Green Chile Enchiladas

_“No son enchiladas” implies that enchiladas are the easiest thing you can cook. Whoever came up with that never saw Castiel try to make them._

_I’m kidding…or am I?_

_This is one of the first dishes I learned to make, back when I was fourteen and not much of a cook. A friend’s mom took me under her wing and taught me how to roll tortillas around filling in a way that wasn’t completely hopeless. I’ve changed some things over the years to fit my taste and Sam’s, but I still owe her a debt of gratitude._

_If you can’t find blue potatoes, you can use red or gold ones. I just think the deep indigo color is particularly striking in combination with the forest green of the poblano peppers and the red enchilada sauce._

Cook time: 90 minutes

Serves 3-4

1 pound blue potatoes, washed and cut into ¼ inch cubes

3 poblano peppers

3 green onions, finely chopped

8 ounces grated Monterey Jack cheese

½ teaspoon ground cumin

½ teaspoon ground ancho chile powder

¾ teaspoon dried oregano

12 corn tortillas*

2 cups plus 1 teaspoon high smoke point oil (e.g. avocado oil or canola oil), divided

20 ounces red enchilada sauce**

Salt

Cilantro

First, you’ll want to roast your poblano peppers. We’re trying to blister their waxy skins, which both makes them easier to peel off and imparts the flesh of the pepper with better flavor. You can roast them over an open flame (if you happen to have one of those raring to go), a gas stove, or under your oven’s broiler at high heat.

Obviously, anything involving cooking over a flame means you’ll have to watch the roasting process very closely. Depending on the proximity of the pepper to the flame, it could take as little as a minute on each side of the pepper to get the skins nice and black, which is what we want. Thick smoke or the total loss of moisture in the peppers is…to be avoided. Some minor smoke is fine—we’re burning the skins off them, after all.

If you’re using your oven’s broiler, place the poblanos on a baking sheet and set it on the top rack (or the highest rack you can place it on without the peppers touching the broiler element). It will take somewhere around 5-8 minutes per side, though it really depends on the oven. The same guidelines apply for the broiler as for a flame—don’t walk away and do other things while they’re in the oven, and check them often. Once your poblanos’ skins are black all around, place them in a pot that’s large enough to hold all of them comfortably and cover for at least 10 minutes.

Next, preheat your oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Toss your cubed potatoes with a teaspoon of oil. Spread them out on a baking sheet and roast until the outsides are crispy and a fork pierces through with little resistance, about 25 minutes. Remove from oven, sprinkle with salt, and let cool.

Once your poblanos are cool enough to handle, it’s time to start skinning them. The time spent sweating in the covered pot should have made their skins loose and easy to peel off. Try to get as much of the skin off as you can, but don’t fret if a little of it stays on. Also, remove the stem and the cluster of seeds beneath it. Lay the peppers flat on your chopping board and dice them into quarter-inch pieces. In a mixing bowl, combine the peppers, potatoes, chopped green onions, 6 ounces of the grated Monterey Jack cheese, cumin, ancho chile, and oregano. MAKE SURE ALL THE INGREDIENTS ARE COOL before doing this. Sorry for shouting, but melted cheese is a nightmare to work with.

Now, it’s time to put together the enchiladas. Preheat your oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. In a medium saucepan, heat the remaining oil at medium heat until a tiny piece of tortilla sizzles upon contact (I start checking at about four minutes on my gas stove, but it took a lot longer on Sam’s smooth-top electric stove). Fry the tortillas for only 10-15 seconds on each side, or until they’re soft and just barely take on some color.

Cover the bottom of a large casserole dish with several ounces of enchilada sauce, or enough for there to not be any empty spots. Reserve the rest of the sauce in a large bowl and submerge the first tortilla in it, then lay it flat in the casserole dish. Drop a few spoonfuls of your vegetable and cheese filling in a narrow line down the middle of the tortilla, then wrap both sides of the tortilla around the filling. Roll the enchilada over so that its seam faces the base of the dish, then slide it against one of the dish’s walls. Repeat with the remaining tortillas, lining them up tightly. Don’t be like Cass and let them have their way with you. 😝

When you’re done, pour the rest of the enchilada sauce over the top, making sure to coat every part, especially the ends of the tortillas. They’ll become dry and tough in the oven if they’re insufficiently sauced. Finally, sprinkle the last two ounces of cheese over the top of the enchiladas.

Bake at 375 degrees for forty minutes. Remove the enchiladas from the oven and let rest for at least five minutes before serving. Sprinkle with chopped cilantro just before digging in. I serve mine with white jasmine rice and black beans; I find that the blandness of the rice and earthiness of the beans balances the cheesy spice of the enchiladas well. In terms of toppings, sliced jalapenos, sour cream, fresh red salsa, sliced avocado, and more chopped cilantro all have a place at my table.

*It’s possible that you’ll have more filling than you can comfortably fit in 12 tortillas. In that case, just fry up a couple more. More enchiladas never hurt anyone.

**Yes, you can use enchilada sauce from a can. I just did. When I’m at home, I make my own, but I didn’t feel like getting all the ingredients to do that at Sam’s. Maybe I’ll post my recipe for sauce this week…if the festival gives me any spare time.


	6. Apple Blossom Granola

_4,589 likes_

**_Castiel_ ** _Sunday dinner with Dean and his brother, Sam. @WinchesterBerries gave me the cooking lesson he promised. He’s a better teacher than I am a pupil._ _😆_

Dean smiled and sipped his coffee. It was 6:10 a.m. Monday morning and he was shuffling around the living room, checking social media for the first time since getting home last night. Castiel had posted the selfie he’d taken at Sam’s dining table—him on the left, Dean on the right, and Sam craning his neck to fit above the two of them—and Dean was trying to come up with the right comment in response.

 _@Castiel You two look so good together_ _💕_

 _@Castiel When’s the wedding?_ _💙💚_

_@Castiel is his brother single…asking for a friend_

Dean stopped in front of the French doors and peered out at the dawn. One of the ducks was already washing itself in the backyard pond, and a few of the edible flower starts were just visible in the dim purple twilight. He looked down at Crowley, who was rubbing up against his shin.

“Looks like me and Cass have fans now.”

Crowley blinked up at him.

“Don’t ask me why. I didn’t invent the rules.”

He clicked the heart icon underneath the picture, then downed the rest of the coffee in a single motion. He’d write something later. The birds still had to be checked on before he could drive out to the farm, and the day had already started.

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Dean spent the morning re-tying raspberry canes to their trellises and checking them for any signs of disease. Most of the knots had held fast since the previous autumn, but the winter winds and spring rains inevitably shook loose at least a few of them in each row. It was easy and almost meditative work, and Dean found that he had plenty of time to think.

 _Have to clean the house,_ he thought. _Well, it_ is _the season for it._

A full cleaning of all three stories of Henry Winchester’s immense home was not a task Dean was looking forward to, especially with the added time commitment the festival demanded of him this week. Maybe he’d just do his best to tidy up the kitchen, living room, bathrooms, and his old bedroom and hope that Castiel wouldn’t have a penchant for wandering into random parts of the house.

His phone vibrated at 10:30, and he stepped back from the raspberries to check it. It was a text from Sam.

_You see Cass’s Instagram? People want to know if I’m single._

_Which you are._

_Which I am. Though I’m flying out to SF in June to see Jess, so we’ll see if anything’s changed._

Dean rolled his eyes. The two of them had been on and off more often in the last eight years than a leaky irrigation system.

_You should reply to him. He’s probably waiting to see what you say._

_Butt out. Don’t you have work to get done? I do._

_Waiting on an email. Hey where’s he gonna sleep when he stays over with you?_

_I hope these aren’t billable hours. What a scam._

_😗_

He returned his phone to his jeans and reached for the twine again. His pocket buzzed seconds later.

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean grunted. He threw the bits of twine back into his shoulder bag and unlocked his phone.

It was Castiel.

_Morning, Dean. You’re probably busy tossing around bales of hay while shirtless, but I just wanted to check that my post didn’t bother you._

_I pressed the like button, didn’t I?_

_And wouldn’t you like to know whether I’m shirtless or not…._

_I would, actually! It’s probably best that I don’t, though._

_??_

_I’m on campus. Biweekly meeting with my supervisor. Knowing what you’re (not) wearing might be too distracting._

_Guess you’ll just have to use your imagination then._ _😆 Alright, I gotta get back to work._

_Those bales of hay won’t toss themselves around._

_Exactly. Catch ya later._

Dean shook his head. He was grinning like a fool and he still had almost a week to go.

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Instead of Charlie, it was Kevin who turned up at the farm in the afternoon to hand off the delivery truck keys to Dean. He came through to the kitchen when Dean convinced him to at least stay for a cup of coffee.

“I thought you’d be back in Charlottesville already,” Dean said.

“Monday lecture was cancelled. The professor wanted us to have another reading day.” Kevin was circling the kitchen, scrutinizing the hanging pots and pans and braids of garlic as if this were his first time seeing any of it. “I’m driving back after dinner. My mom insisted I stay for a home-cooked meal.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Your mom insisted you _not_ go straight back to campus?”

“Yeah, she’s getting soft.” Kevin stopped abruptly in front of the refrigerator. “Hey, what’s this I’m hearing about you and some guy you met on the internet?”

“Jesus Christ. Not you too.”

“Charlie told me all about it.”

“Charlie doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“I don’t know, Dean. She seemed pretty convinced.”

“You’re seriously going to believe Charlie over me when it comes to human relationships? Seriously?”

Kevin stroked his chin. “Fair point. But, just so you know, I wouldn’t have any problem with it. If you were…you know.”

“What a relief.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Well, now that I have your permission, I’ll drive downtown and hit on every dude I see.”

“That would take a while. It also might have brand ramifications for Winchester and Sons.”

Dean poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Kevin. Maybe he’d shut up once he had something else to occupy his mouth with.

“You’re still working this weekend, right?” Dean said, deciding to change the subject for good measure.

“Yeah. Only Saturday, though. I need to spend all day Sunday studying. Finals start next week.”

“Totally fair. I don’t want Linda coming around here to shout at me if you don’t ace them all.”

“Technically, I only need a B- on any of them for an A in the course, but, you know. Bragging rights and all that.”

“Yeah.” Dean chuckled and raised his mug to his lips. “Bragging rights.”

After they finished their coffee, Dean walked Kevin out to the driveway. He watched him pull out and zoom off down the state route back into the city. A few seconds passed before he sighed and got back into the truck. There were still a few hours left of daylight.

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Potatoes and spices in the pantry; cilantro and green onions in the greenhouse; peppers, cheese, and tortillas in the refrigerator. Dean shot a video for blue potato and green chile enchiladas that night—complete with a demonstration of his sauce recipe—and uploaded it to his channel using the tricks that Sam had taught him.

By the time he was finished, he was almost too tired to eat. He collapsed into the couch with his bowl of enchiladas and waved the remote at the TV lazily.

“At least I can freeze the rest of it,” he mumbled.

Dean tried not to drink on weekday nights, but he figured he deserved a few beers. It wasn’t just because he’d worked a full day in the fields and shot an entire recipe for the blog after that, though that would’ve been enough reason. It was also because the city was hosting the festival networking luncheon for local business owners tomorrow and he was obligated to go. He’d always been annoyed by the preening and posturing there; now that he had to attend alone, he dreaded it more acutely than ever.

Dean returned his attention to his beer and enchiladas, resolving to put it all out of his mind until tomorrow. He’d just found a cartoon to zone out to when his phone shook.

_Nice video! I linked to your blog on my Instagram._

Dean grinned, stuck his bottle between his legs, and started typing.

_Thanks, Cass. Appreciate it._

_How was your day?_

_Normal. Spent most of it checking raspberries. Tired as hell._

_You?_

_Alright. Meeting was fine. Stayed in the library until late trying to track down all these French documents._

_So I have them to work with when I come over_ _😊_

 _Now I’m waiting for my pizza to get here and watching your video while I wait_ _😇_

_Watching for the food or something else?_

_The food, of course! I told you, I relax by looking at food blogs._

_😛 Right. Sure._

_You know what would help? A cameraman._

_Sometimes I want to zoom in or change the angle and you can’t really do that with a fixed camera._

_What do you want to zoom in on?_

_…Will I regret asking that?_

_Texture of the food on the chopping board, stuff like that._

_Stop being so dirty_ _😇_

_Me?!_

_Hang on, pizza’s here_ _🍕_

Dean took a bite of his enchiladas while he waited. On the TV, a giant robot was locked in battle against a reptile with a detachable arm.

_Good news and bad news:_

_Good news, pizza’s here_

_What’s the bad news?_

_Bad news, Michael just sent me a long email I have to respond to right now. So I’ll talk to you later._

_Everything ok?_

_Yeah, just family stuff_

_I’ll text you tomorrow_ _😊_

Dean put down his phone and scratched his head. He wasn’t sure he believed Castiel when he said that everything was fine, but it wasn’t his place to press the issue.

Besides, he had to finish eating and head to bed. The only thing worse than having to attend the local business luncheon would be having to attend the local business luncheon while sleep deprived.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Dean got in a few hours of work the next morning—it was nearly May, so he was setting up the bird netting around the strawberries—before he had to drive back to the house and get ready for the luncheon. He showered, put on his navy-blue suit, and tied his pink necktie in the full-length mirror that hung from his closet door. Once he’d finished adjusting his tie and cuffs, he grabbed his phone from atop the bureau and snapped a picture of his reflection.

 _Dressed up in my monkey suit_ _🙈,_ he wrote, once he’d sent the picture to Castiel.

_What’s that for?_

_Looking dapper, by the way_ _👔_

 _It’s this networking lunch I have to go to_ _😴_

_You don’t want to go?_

_No, it’s boring and I have crap I need to do here._

_Glad you like the outfit, though_ _😉_

_I like the pink tie the most!_

_Don’t get too excited_ _😛 It’s just because pink and green are the festival colors._

_Where’s the green?_

_My eyes_ _😉_

_Ah. How could I forget your beautiful eyes?_

_As for the networking thing…._

_Just do what I do at events like that._

_Blurt out a controversial political opinion that makes lazy thinkers uncomfortable._

_Then, just say you’re making conversation._

_I dunno, that might be worse than not going at all in terms of networking_ _😆_

_True. It would be entertaining, though._

_You’re right, Cass. I really should show you more respect for surviving this long in polite society._

_Gotta go. I’ll tell you all about it later_ _😊_

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

The luncheon, as Dean had predicted, was stultifying. The community hall was packed tight with suits and cocktail dresses; owing to a temperamental HVAC system, the air was warm and stagnant. Sitting at one of the large round tables with eight other people, most of whom he’d seen at these events before, Dean felt like a smothered caneberry shoot in a tangled briar patch.

At least the catered food was good.

Midway through the interminable speeches and award ceremonies, the woman sitting to his left struck up a conversation. She’d been holding onto her martini glass for dear life since she’d arrived, which in Dean’s eyes made her something of a kindred spirit.

“Winchester and Sons Organic Berry Farm,” she said, reading from Dean’s preprinted nametag.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, you the Winchester or one of the sons? Judging by your youthful complexion, I’m guessing the latter.”

“Well, my dad died two years ago, so now it’s just me. I guess that makes me both the Winchester and the son.”

She blinked a few times, then set her glass on the table and patted his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, dear.”

“No, I—” Dean sat up and faked a smile. “Maybe I’ll get around to changing the name before next year’s luncheon.”

It was late afternoon when Dean got out of the community hall; the sun had already descended below the steeple of the Lutheran church on the other side of the red brick square. He’d exchanged some perfunctory business cards and caught up with a few farmers and restaurant owners he’d known for years. Otherwise, he thought that his time would’ve been better spent on setting up bird netting.

Dean checked his phone once he was sitting in the Impala again. Nothing from Castiel. He thought about texting him but decided against it. Castiel was probably hard at work on his dissertation; he wouldn’t appreciate Dean’s constant interruptions.

“Play it cool,” Dean mumbled, before returning his phone to his pocket and starting the car.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

After making good use of the remaining hours of daylight to continue with the netting, Dean returned to the house and started cooking up an easy dinner of turkey burgers and French fries. The potatoes needed about an hour in the oven, so Dean decided to use the time to clean and organize the refrigerator. He wanted there to be room for Castiel’s groceries when he was staying with him.

“Looks good,” he said, as he surveyed the shelves of the refrigerator. A half-hour of composting tired-looking vegetables and scrubbing dingy bins had been enough to get it gleaming. “Plenty of empty space to fill.”

His phone buzzed just as he closed the refrigerator’s doors.

_How’d it go?_

_The usual,_ Dean wrote. _Speeches, awards, catching up with people I don’t keep up with for a reason. Good food though._

_Wow, you really don’t like hobnobbing, huh?_

_Not just that._

_I always think about my dad when I have to do these things. And Sam. We used to all go together._

_Now it’s just me._

Castiel didn’t reply for a long time, and Dean began to regret being so open about what he was feeling.

_I wish I could say or do something._

_I’m sure it’s hard to be reminded that, in some ways, you’re on your own._

_There’s Sam, but he has his own life now._

_Which is good, don’t get me wrong._

_It’s fine to miss him, Dean. Your father too._

_That doesn’t make you weak, whiny, or whatever._

_And hey, I’ll be there in a few days. That’ll provide you with some distraction_ _😄_

_Why does that sound like a threat…._

_I thought I make you laugh!_

_Yeah. Sometimes without even trying_ _😆_

_I have to go now._

_Aw, don’t get sore._

_I’m laughing with you…most of the time_ _😆_

_That’s good! But I mean I actually have to go. I’m going to dinner with a friend and he just arrived._

_Talk to you tomorrow_ _😊_

Dean stared at the screen, his thumb twitching over the phone’s keyboard.

“‘He just arrived?’” Dean muttered.

It was humiliating for about a dozen reasons, but hot, ragged jealousy bloomed in Dean’s chest and along the back of his neck at these words. It flared down and up and out as he reread them over and over.

Who was “he”? And why “tomorrow”?

Minutes went by as Dean leaned against the kitchen island, still and straining as a levee. Eventually, the scent of burning potatoes shook him from his frozen indignation.

They weren’t completely ruined, thankfully. Dean counted his blessings as he plated up his meal.

He never set a timer for oven fries. They were something he could make without thinking, without fail. Then again, it seemed like that certainty, like so many others in his life, had fallen by the wayside.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

_Morning, handsome!_ _😄_

Dean dropped the bird netting to the grass and wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. The sun beat down on his nape.

_Morning._

_How was dinner?_

_Just alright. We tried a new place in Columbia Heights but it was more hype than reality._

_Feeling better today?_

_Yeah, peachy._

_…You sure?_

_Should I not have called you handsome?_ _😕_

Dean sighed and shook his head. He already felt his wounded pride ebbing away.

_No, it’s fine. I told you, I’m flattered._

_I just…kinda thought we were in the middle of something when you up and left last night._

_Sorry 🙁_ _I know it was abrupt. Zeke was waiting for me_ _🙁_

_It’s his last semester so I don’t know how many more times I’ll see him before he moves away._

_Yeah. I don’t wanna sound whiny. I don’t know why I’m being like this._

_Just a rough week I think._

_We all have those. You’re almost halfway through it_ _😊_

_Is it still ok for me to come over on Sunday?_

_Of course, you better still be coming_ _😛_

_We can talk all you want once I’m there!_

_Great, more threats_ _😛_

 _Gonna get back to work now, handsome_ _😉_

_Catch ya later._

_He called me handsome_ _😍_

_Hump day=made!_

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

That afternoon marked the start of preparations for the Winchester and Sons booth on the festival route. Dean drove down to the warehouse at 4:15 and began inventorying the delivery truck and the cold storage—dried berries, freeze-dried berries, berry jams, berry jellies, berry syrups, berry teas, berry juices. Charlie arrived just after five and parked a little too close to the Impala for Dean’s liking.

“Hey, bitch.”

Dean glanced up from his clipboard. “Hey. You’re early.”

“Yeah, Dick let me go before five. It was weird. Now, if only my other boss would stop being such a slave-driver.”

“You work for me one day a week. Not sure I’d call that slavery.”

“I’m working today, Saturday, _and_ Sunday.”

Dean chuckled. “I stand corrected. You work for me one day a week except for the one week a year when you don’t.”

“Right.” She tossed her backpack onto one of the metal tables. “Details are important, you know. So, what’re we doing?”

“I’m checking what we have in stock against the spreadsheet we made for the booth.” Dean handed her the clipboard. “You can finish doing that while I start loading up the truck.”

“Why, because you’re the guy? I can load the truck.”

“I know you can. I just thought….”

Charlie cocked her head.

“Fine, have it your way.” He double-checked his list. “Let’s start with four cases of the Virginia strawberry jam. That should fill your dolly.”

“On it, boss.”

“And I’m sure you can wheel more cases.” Dean walked between the rows of pallets and started inventorying the tea. “But we’ve got plenty of time, and I don’t want a repeat of last year.”

At the 2018 Apple Blossom Festival, Dean had asked Charlie and Kevin to start unloading the truck while he set up the booth along the festival route, which apparently was his first mistake. Charlie was rolling an overfilled dolly down the truck ramp when a strong breeze caused her to lose control. To this day, Dean thought he could still see the blood-red stain of strawberry syrup on the fairground grass when he drove by.

“That happened once. You’re never going to let me live that down.”

“I’m looking out for you. An overfilled dolly is a safety risk.” Dean scrawled a six next to the raspberry tea line on his clipboard. “Especially for the less coordinated among us.”

Charlie rolled her eyes as she wheeled the hand truck past him.

“You know what I’ve never told you? That you’re like the second older brother I don’t need.”

“Pretty sure you have told me that. Pretty sure you tell me that at least once a month. And I’m pretty sure I always reply that you’re the little sister I never wanted.”

“Oh well. Nothing wrong with the classics.”

Dean watched Charlie stack the cases on the pallet closest to the cab. He put his hands on his hips.

“Bend your knees more when you lift. You’ll wreck your back like that.”

“Did I say second older brother?” she grunted. “I meant second dad.”

It was past eight when they finished loading the truck. Dean invited Charlie back for dinner at the farm, but she declined.

“I just want my couch and my pajamas right now.” She beeped her car open. “Let me know if you need a hand with anything over the next two days. Otherwise, I’ll see you Saturday.”

“I’ll drive the truck into town around eight. That should give us plenty of time to get everything set up before the crowds. You can turn up at 8:30. I told Kevin that too.”

“Every minute of sleep before noon on a weekend is precious.”

Dean jerked his chin towards the Impala. “Careful when you back out.”

“I’m not going to graze your Baby. I’m not suicidal.”

She put her car into reverse and waved. Once she’d left, Dean pulled out onto the blacktop and drove in the opposite direction, along the brook and up the winding hill to where Henry’s house held a commanding view of the rolling countryside.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

_Climate strike Friday afternoon! If it’s safe for you to walk out of your job or classroom on Friday, please join us at John Marshall Park at 10. We’ll head to the Capitol and make our voices heard. #systemchangenotclimatechange #GreenNewDeal_

Dean plugged his phone into the charger on his nightstand, pulled back the covers on his bed, and climbed in. Once he’d settled into the sheets, he reached for his phone again and looked at the picture below Castiel’s tweet. Castiel was seated, hips open and the soles of his feet pressed together, below what looked like a cherry tree. The sea-green grass around him was strewn with blossoms the color of thinly spun cotton candy, a few of which had fallen into his unruly mess of hair. He was smoldering, head angled slightly to the left, at the camera—that imperious, intensely aware smolder that made him look a little crazy. Crazy and irresistible.

 _Just saw your tweet,_ Dean typed. _I’d love to strike, but I think Charlie and Kevin would break my legs._

_You can’t strike, handsome. You’re quite literally the rural landowner. The ancient foe of the urban proletariat._

_I mean, there are capital strikes, but screw those assbutts._

_I’m just a regular guy_ _😵_

_Assbutts??_

_Something I came up with. Certain ring to it._

_What are you up to? I would’ve texted you earlier, but I was at my office on campus_

_I try not to look at my phone there._

_About to go to bed. Just felt like talking._

_What about?_

_I dunno. Nothing in particular?_

_Just wanted to make sure things are cool after this morning._

_They’re cool, Dean. As cool as the polar ice cap we’re going to save._

Dean laughed. He switched off his bedside lamp and relaxed into his pillow.

 _I believe it_ _😆_

_Alright, Cass. Bedtime for me._

_Night, Dean_ 🌙

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Dean spent all day Thursday on the farm. It was his last full day of work before the festival’s crescendo absorbed all his time, so he drove himself hard trying to get as much done among the berries as humanly possible. It was the second of May, which meant that the first workers would be showing up to pick strawberries in a couple weeks. It wouldn’t do for him to be behind on basic things like netting when they arrived.

Strawberries were one of the main money crops for the farm, along with blueberries. Heirloom organic strawberries fetched a hefty price at the farmer’s markets and at local restaurants, and strawberry jam was by far the most popular jam or jelly they sold. As he established the netting over acre after acre, he recited to himself his hope for a good strawberry season like an incantation.

Dean had been mulling over expanding the strawberry fields for a while now. The obstacle to that was labor. There were never enough workers for strawberries—they ripened early in the year, when kids were still in school, and it was hard for most farmworkers to find childcare. Not only that, but no one really liked picking strawberries. They grew low to the ground, which meant a lot of squatting and bending down in the dust, all of which took a toll on the body.

At 11:30, Dean trudged up to the truck to eat the pastrami sandwiches he’d packed in a cooler. He dangled one leg out the door and gazed at the ridge in the distance, where his property ended and the next began.

He thought about texting Castiel, but after the spasm of jealousy he’d felt the other night and the passive-aggressive way he’d dealt with it the next day, he was starting to think that a cooling-off period was in order. He’d been talking to him every day, and it showed.

Besides, he thought he had to yank some of the power back. He was opening himself up way too quickly with this guy he barely knew. It was insane. He didn’t even do that with women.

He decided there, as he wiped the crumbs from his fingers and returned to the fields: he’d take his time responding the next time Castiel messaged him.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Nevertheless, that night, when his phone buzzed with Castiel’s text, Dean replied instantly.

_Dean, you have to stop it._

_??_

_Stop what?_

_People are arguing in the comments of your latest video._

_Some of them say I’m there with you. Offscreen. They’re saying that’s why I linked to it on my Instagram._

_Others are saying I’m not there and that this is all an act to get people talking._

_I didn’t know what the abbreviation RPS meant until tonight_ _😲_

_Do I want to know?_

_I sincerely doubt it._

Dean considered looking it up himself, then decided to take Castiel’s word for it.

_I just figured you might want to know. If you didn’t already._

_You can stomp on it now by saying you were alone._

_I dunno. Might be fun to keep people guessing_ _😉_

_Really?_

_Yeah!_

_Why, is it making you uncomfortable?_

_No…._

_I thought you’d be uncomfortable_

_I didn’t want it to affect our friendship_ _😌_

_I’m not that superficial, Cass._

_I don’t care what people think of me_

_Everyone has opinions and they’re all bullshit_

_That was one of the first things I learned growing up._

_You’re pretty different from most straight guys, you know that?_

Dean’s breath stalled. He sat forward on the couch cushion. Crowley glared at him and jumped off his lap.

_What does that mean?_

_You’re genuine. There’s a front—all that masculinity theater—but it’s halfhearted._

_Uh. Thanks?_

_And you’re not insecure. I don’t know what it is about men that makes us all so scared. Maybe I should walk up McKeldin Mall and ask the sociology department._

_I’m sure they’d appreciate that._

_Cass…you’ve lost me, buddy._

_I’m complimenting you, I swear._

_Just in your…Cass sort of way?_

_Exactly!_

_You can get normal compliments anywhere._

_Mine are special._

Dean snorted. He couldn’t argue with that.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Since the start of the week, Dean had been looking forward to Friday morning. Not as much as he was looking forward to Sunday night, but almost.

Friday morning was the best event of the entire festival: the apple pie baking contest at Fortuna Orchards.

It started at ten and ran till three, so Dean was able to squeeze in a few hours of farmwork beforehand. By 9:20, he’d finished netting about a dozen rows, nearly completing the project. He drove back to the house more convinced than ever that this would be a good year.

His phone shook against his leg as he was finishing in the mudroom. Dean tapped in his passcode as he walked to the bathroom for his shower.

 _Morning_ _😊 I’m up early, figured I’d say hello!_

 _This is early?_ _😛_

 _I’m a night owl_ _😇_

_Busy day today?_

_You could say that._

_Today’s the apple pie baking contest_ _😋_

_So yeah, I’ll be busy. Busy sampling._

_Are you entering? As a contestant, I mean?_

_Nah. I’ve thought about it, but…nah._

_I don’t want to ruin the sublime perfection of pie by getting competitive about it._

_Well, have a good time!_

_I will_ _😊 How about you?_

_Climate march most of the day. Then there’s a department social…thing in the afternoon._

_Everyone gets together and awkwardly gestures at one another with drinks in hand._

_I guess I’ll go._

_You gonna use your technique?_

_Blurt out a political opinion that shocks people?_

_Alas, no._

_We’re all political scientists. None of us are shocked by crackpot political beliefs_ _😆_

_In fact, we probably thought up most of them._

_Haha, well good luck. I have to take a shower now._

_The apple pie contest starts in a half hour_ _😍_

_No problem! I fully support you getting naked and wet._

_Thought you might_ _😉_

_Catch ya later._

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

There really was no way to mess up apple pie. Dean had tried 26 different pies—sample plates, so only a couple bites—and was going for plate 27 when his digestive system rebelled. He sat down at the edge of the converted barn and massaged his side, which was cramping intensely enough for him to have to hunch over.

“Are you okay?”

Dean glanced up. The baker at the table closest to him, a reedy guy in his late twenties with shaggy hair, was looking at him with concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just overate.” Dean winced. “Everything’s just…so good.”

“Alright. Hey, if that doesn’t get better, try lying down on the floor. I always find that helps.”

“Thanks.” Dean nodded to the guy’s pie. “I tried yours. It was excellent.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Your apple blend was awesome. Notes of citrus and berries. Pink Lady and Gravenstein, right?”

He looked taken aback, but quickly recovered.

“Trade secret,” he said. “Can’t give away my recipe.”

“Of course not. No, I completely get it. And the lattice crust? Light and puffy and just—” Dean winced again. “Hang on, sorry.”

The baker pulled a bottle of water out of his cooler and offered it to Dean.

“Thanks.” Dean sipped from it gingerly. “I’m serious, though. I’d buy a pie from you.”

He started rooting around in his pockets. “If you come to Patisserie Garth, you can!”

“Patisserie…Garth?”

“Yeah. Darn, where’d I put those. Oh, here.” He extended a business card. “I'm the eponymous Garth, by the way.”

“Dean. Dean Winchester. I run a berry farm up the road from here.”

“Berries,” Garth murmured. “Interesting.”

“You’re in Old Town?” Dean said, upon examining the card. “I thought I knew all the bakeries down there.”

“We just had our grand opening in February. I only moved to Winchester earlier this year. Bet you can’t tell by my voice.”

“Yeah, you fit right in. Not like me. I’ve lived here most of my life and barely have a Southern accent.”

A woman was waving behind Garth, and Dean nodded to her.

“Looks like you have a customer,” Dean said.

“Oh.” He started walking backwards towards his table. “Nice to meet you, Dean. Come down and visit anytime.”

Dean pocketed the business card, deciding to take a stroll in the fresh air while his stomach calmed down. Befriending a baker was a good move—they always needed berries and were usually willing to pay well for both rarity and quality.

Plus, this Garth guy seemed okay. This was the kind of networking that Dean didn’t mind.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

After the contest was over, Dean drove to the supermarket to stock up on groceries before Castiel’s arrival. He’d written a list last night on the couch, yet couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. After forty-five minutes and three circuits of the store, he realized what it was.

Breakfast.

Even though he’d planned out various impressive vegetarian dinners for the two of them throughout the week, he hadn’t spared a thought for what he’d feed Castiel for breakfast. Dean ate a fried egg and steel-cut oatmeal with berries every morning, but he couldn’t expect Castiel to be satisfied with only one option. When Dean passed a jar of apple blossom honey in the baking aisle, he was finally struck with inspiration.

_Hey Cass_

_You like granola?_

He waited for a reply for several minutes, then began collecting the ingredients while he waited. Even if Castiel said no, he could use them for other things.

_Hey sorry. Was on the metro, heading back from the climate protest._

_I like granola_ _😊 It fits my disheveled New Age aesthetic._

 _Is that what it’s called?_ _😛_

_Alright, I’ll make us granola._

_You make granola?_

_I’ve only seen it in a box._

_Does that make you think less of me?_ _😇_

 _No comment_ _🙊_

_Any nut allergies?_

_No, I love nuts_ _😉_

_The only thing I’m allergic to is greedy capitalists._

_😆_

_So I can feed you any nuts I want?_

_Well, I’d prefer if you asked first_ _😇_

_Haha_

_Sorry, I had to._

_Don’t apologize_ _😉_

_I’ll text you later, I’m in the middle of the store right now._

_Please do._

_It’ll give me a distraction at the department gathering_ _😅_

Dean had scooped up nearly all the ingredients for the granola by now—one visit to the bulk row took care of nearly all of them—but he returned to the baking aisle for the last one: the raw apple blossom honey from an organic orchard twenty minutes east of town.

It was a one-pound jar for $15. Dean wouldn’t have spent that on himself, but…well, Sam was right. He was trying to impress Castiel.

He hated when Sam was right.

Dean pushed his cart to the checkout line; the cashier waved and started up the conveyer belt.

“Jo, hey.”

“You slacking off, Dean? I don’t normally see you here on Fridays.”

“I wish. I’m working the festival the whole weekend, so I’m doing all my errands today. Although I did hit up the pie contest this morning.”

“As if you’d ever miss that.” She peered into one of Dean’s produce bags.

“Mustard greens.”

“Thanks.” She punched some numbers into the register. “You trying to clean out the store or something? When’s the army stopping by?”

“No army. Got a friend staying over next week.”

Jo snorted. “A friend, huh?”

“Just a friend,” Dean said, rolling his eyes.

“Uh-huh. I think about half the girls in town were your ‘friend’ at some point, Dean.”

“Well, I’m not like that anymore. He’s a guy.”

She blinked. “Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

“No! I mean he’s actually a friend! Why’s it so hard to believe that I’m not sleeping around?”

The cashier and customer in the next lane stared at him. Dean buried his nose in his wallet.

“Hey, you have my full support, whatever’s going on.” She rang up the total. “I've always wanted a GBF.”

“I don’t know what that is, and I don’t want to know.” Dean ran his credit card. “I should’ve gone through self-checkout.”

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Dean spent the late afternoon and evening cleaning the house. He vacuumed the first and second floors but didn’t bother with the third, which was a single huge attic that the last three generations of Winchesters had relegated to storage space. He dusted the oak bookshelves, the mahogany tables and cabinets. He scrubbed the three bathrooms and the mudroom. He opened all the French doors to the deck to air out the house. It was still early enough in the year to not have to worry too much about bugs.

He was a sweaty mess by the time he was done and barely felt like eating, much less making, dinner. Still, he washed up and started on the granola. He hadn’t posted a recipe or video since Monday, and his followers wouldn’t care that he’d been working like a dog all week. All they’d see was the lack of content.

It was a short video; there was nothing complicated or special about granola. Dean didn’t know why people bought it prepackaged in the first place. Once it was out of the oven, Dean poured himself a glass of whiskey and went out to the deck to sit. It was fully dark now—the moon was new, so the stars were all there was.

_Hey Cass._

_Sorry for not texting before now. Been busy._

He sipped his drink while he waited for a response. The temperature had fallen to the high 50s; Dean was having his whiskey heated, with a little honey and lemon peel.

_No worries. The department reunion wasn’t all that bad._

_Some hair pulling and gnashing of teeth, but that’s just a day that ends in y here._

_Heh._

_I made our granola. Shot a video but still have to edit it._

_Hey Mr. Perfect._

_Try being less perfect sometime._

_Actually, don’t. I like you this way._

Dean tipped his head back against the deck chair and sighed. His chest felt tingling-warm, his limbs pleasantly tired. Part of it was the whiskey, though not all. Dean could admit that. No one else was there to deny it to.

_I’m not perfect, Cass._

_Well, no one’s perfect._

_I’m just teasing you._

_I know._

_I just…don’t want you to be disappointed._

_The more you raise me up, the farther I’ll have to fall._

_You okay?_

_Yeah, just tired or something._

_Maybe you should hit the hay early_ _😪_

_(Not the hay I’m throwing at you)_

_Maybe_ _😊_

_I’m just chilling on the deck right now. Looking at the stars._

_Seems like there’s more every time I look up._

_I bet you can see them all there._

_Reminds me of home._

Before Dean could respond, a thin plume of light at the corner of the backyard, where the lines of the house met the distant ridge across the hollow, caught his eye. He squinted at it for a few seconds before it burst into bloom and he realized what it was.

Fireworks.

Dozens more followed close behind, then hundreds—pink and green mostly, though every other color made an appearance eventually. They scattered down over the horizon like fruit blossoms in a stiff wind.

_Oh, the fireworks in town just started._

_I forgot about them._

_You just got Katy Perry stuck in my head._

_I don’t mind._

Dean glanced between his phone and the night sky. Fireworks shows never lasted very long—a few minutes, maybe. Even now, it was probably closer to the end than the beginning. He didn’t know why that bothered him so much.

_I wish you could see this with me, Cass._

_I dunno. I mean, it’s just fireworks._

_You probably see way more interesting things every day. Living in DC and all that._

_Sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying._

_I get it_ _😊_

_After a hurricane comes a rainbow, that sort of thing?_

_What?_

_I apologize. I was just at that point in the song._

A couple minutes went by; the fireworks were tapering off. Dean thought that that was the end of it. He was beginning to understand that Castiel had a habit of disappearing—dropping the thread of a conversation at random, often inconvenient places.

The grand finale was fading into the inky black above the city when Dean’s phone lit up again.

_But seriously, I get it._

_I wish I could see them with you too._

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Apple Blossom Granola

_Winchester is playing host to the Shenandoah Apple Blossom Festival this week. I figured I’d come up with a recipe that pays tribute to it. A lot of you have been asking me for a recipe using berries, so here you go._

_Granola is really easy. The only thing to watch out for is overbaking—if in doubt, remove the tray from the oven a few minutes before you think it’s done. The granola will continue to cook for several more minutes as it cools. The ingredients that go into granola aren’t cheap, so spending all that money just to end up with burnt oats and smoking nuts is a bad time._

Cook time: 45 minutes

Makes 6 servings

1/3 cup apple blossom honey

2 tablespoons rice bran oil

3 cups old-fashioned oats

½ cup chopped pecans*

¼ cup chopped walnuts

¼ cup chopped hazelnuts

¼ cup chopped Brazil nuts

½ cup shredded coconut

3 tablespoons maple sugar

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon ground ginger

¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg

¼ teaspoon salt

¼ cup dried cherries

¼ cup dried cranberries

¼ cup dried blueberries

¼ cup dried apples, roughly chopped

¼ cup dried dates, finely chopped

Preheat oven to 300 degrees Fahrenheit and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Combine the apple blossom honey and rice bran oil in a small saucepan on medium-low heat. Stir until fully combined and shiny.

While the honey and oil are heating, combine all the other ingredients except the dried fruits in a large mixing bowl. Then, pour the finished honey mixture into the bowl and mix well. It can get quite sticky, so don’t be afraid to use your hands if you have to.

Spread evenly over your baking sheet and bake. You’ll want to keep an eye on this while it's in the oven, stirring every 10 minutes or so to prevent the edges from browning too quickly. Once the granola is golden brown—around 35-40 minutes—remove from the oven, stir gently, and let cool. Once it’s room temperature, combine with the fruit and store in an airtight container.

*Be sure not to chop your nuts too finely. That could cause them to bake too quickly in the oven and possibly burn. I’d recommend a somewhat rough chop, similar to the size of dried cherries.


	7. Strawberry Brandy Sidecars

In the morning, the fog hung in thick tendrils from the red oaks that lined either side of the driveway, obscuring the lawn and fence and even the road itself. Dean sipped coffee from his thermos and screwed the lid back on. He brought the Impala into drive and rolled forward, taking it slow.

He’d allowed himself to sleep in. There wasn’t much point in driving down to the festival grounds more than an hour before people started arriving. His body woke him up before six, of course, but he curled back under the sheets and nestled down into the warmth for another half hour or so, rising finally with his alarm clock.

Under the showerhead, as the droplets drummed his shoulders, Dean thought about Castiel arriving tomorrow.

They hadn’t talked more after the fireworks last night, aside from Dean noting that he was hitting the sack and Castiel giving him a thumbs up. It was weird and a little unsettling, how quiet Castiel got after Dean brought up wanting to watch them with him. He wondered whether he’d bored him with his sentimentality. Whiskey brought out that side of him, as did days and weeks that were too long but which had to be pushed through all the same.

Dean pursed his lips in the bathroom mirror as he donned his khakis and pink polo shirt. He was rusty at putting his best foot forward with new people; that much was obvious.

Over his coffee and oatmeal, he responded to the handful of comments on his granola recipe, including one that read _This looks delicious but…is Castiel there or not, please just tell us._

 _Let me take a look around…he must be around here somewhere._ _😉 Keep watching, maybe he’ll turn up eventually._

Dean had smiled to himself when he posted that. Castiel would get a kick out of it.

The heat of the day was burning off the fog by the time Dean reached the warehouse. He switched out Baby for the delivery truck and pulled onto the state highway, bound for the festival route in the heart of the city.

A few of the vendors were already there when Dean arrived—local artisans and restaurateurs, mostly, though there was a healthy presence of farmers like him. Winchester and Sons had been assigned a space between an elderly couple who sold alpaca wool products and a woman who made hand-painted jewelry, and Dean greeted all three of them. He was acquainted with them from the farmer’s market.

Dean got the tent up just in time for the drizzle to start. He was setting up the tables and banners when he heard Charlie and Kevin laughing towards him across the grass.

“Morning,” Dean said, stepping down from the ladder. “You two look…surprisingly awake.”

“We were just at that new bakery in Old Town.” Charlie circled the tent to look at it from the front. “I needed a sugar injection to be up this early on a weekend.”

“The guy—I guess he’s the owner?” Kevin plopped into one of the folding chairs. “He’s hilarious.”

“Oh, Garth?”

“You know him?” Kevin said.

“Sort of. He helped me with a…digestive issue.”

Charlie grimaced. “Sounds lovely.”

“I just ate too much pie yesterday. He gave me his bottle of water.” Dean put his hands on his hips. “Alright, let’s get started. Probably carry the displays out first, just in case we get some early customers. Then we’ll bring the crates over and line them up under the tables. If anyone’s nervous about the load on their dolly, just wheel one crate at a time. It’s better than dropping a Ben Franklin’s worth of berries on the ground.”

“Told you he’d bring it up,” Charlie muttered to Kevin.

They worked more efficiently than Dean had expected—Garth’s sugar infusion had clearly done the trick—and the stall was all set up by the top of the hour. An early bird even dropped by before nine for a jar of blueberry jam and a tin of golden currant and chamomile tea.

“Do all three of us really need to be here?” Charlie said, once the sun had peeked out tentatively from the clouds and people were trickling onto the boulevard.

Kevin elbowed her. “If he wants to pay us to do nothing, let him.”

“It’ll get busier. Saturday’s the busiest day. You said the same thing last year. And the year before that.”

In spite of their constant complaining, Dean couldn’t imagine working the weekend farmer’s markets or the local fairs and festivals without Charlie and Kevin. He’d hired them in the aftermath of his father’s death, when he was still picking up the pieces of the life he’d known for 15 years and didn’t even have Lisa to lean on yet. They’d both responded to his ad in _The Winchester Star_ looking for weekend help and came to interview at the same time. There, around the birch kitchen island, over coffee and English muffins spread with butter and berry jam, Dean had laughed for the first time since he’d discovered John on the mudroom floor. That was when he knew he wanted to keep them around.

“Hey Dean,” Kevin was saying. “Mind handing me two jars of strawberry? Sort of…got my hands full here.”

Dean blinked. A gaggle of festivalgoers had gathered at the curb, and Charlie and Kevin were both counting out cash. Dean banished the memories with a roll of his neck and bent down to the crates of jam.

They ate lunch in shifts—Charlie’s apartment was close enough for her to run back there to eat, while Kevin picked up a burrito from a place down the street. Dean opened his cooler and bit into a BLT once they were back, savoring the crunch of bacon and curly-leaf lettuce from his greenhouse. He slid his phone from his pocket and looked at Castiel’s Twitter, scrolling down through various political takes until he reached his cherry blossom photograph.

“Looking at your dreamboat?” Charlie said, over his shoulder.

Dean nearly dropped his sandwich. “What the hell? Can’t I get a little privacy on my break?”

“Wait, what?” Kevin rushed over. “That’s him? The guy you were telling me about?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “He’s hot, right?”

“I mean, that’s not really my field of expertise, but I think most girls would say so.”

She slapped his shoulder. “Don’t be so heteronormative.”

“Ow,” Kevin said, rubbing his shoulder. “Sorry.”

Dean glared at them. “Buzz off. Who’s manning the register?”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t see any customers.”

“Wait, look at how many likes he has on that post.” Kevin peered at Dean’s phone. “14k? Is he some kind of celebrity?”

“Goddammit.” Dean pressed his phone dark and stood up. “This is an invasion of privacy. What’s wrong with you two? What happened to boundaries?”

Charlie crossed her arms. “Why so touchy, Dean?”

“I’m not touchy.”

“He’s so touchy,” Kevin agreed.

“I’m _not_ touchy. You guys are just pestering me.” Dean gestured to the front of the stall. “We’ve got a customer. Afternoon, ma’am, these two will be happy to help you.”

Charlie and Kevin walked away reluctantly, and Dean returned to his folding chair to finish his lunch. Upon a few seconds of staring down at the ground and seething, he chuckled and shook his head. Maybe it was his lot to be surrounded by annoying younger siblings for the rest of his life. That wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

After the three of them packed up the stall in the evening, Dean dropped Kevin off at his family’s house and wished him luck on his finals. Then he drove the delivery truck back home. He and Charlie had packed it with enough earlier in the week to not need restocking, and the Impala would be fine at the warehouse for one night.

 _Hey_ , he wrote to Castiel, once he was sitting on the couch with his plate of reheated enchiladas. _Done with work for the day._

Castiel didn’t text him right away. Dean picked up the remote and started channel surfing.

_Oh hi. Sorry, I’m packing and wasn’t looking at my phone._

_Been a while since I’ve gone away to a place that wasn’t my family for an entire week._

_I’m a homebody too, don’t worry._

_You know, I figured you’d be more of a traveler._

_I love to travel. I just don’t have a reason to right now while I’m writing._

_My last trip was to France and Spain, for my research. Early last year._

_I traveled all over when I was younger, though._

_Where’s your favorite place you’ve been?_

_Cuba_ _😍_

 _Haha_ _😛_

_What?_

_I guess you liked all that sweet, sweet socialism?_

_No, although that was…interesting, to say the least._

_I loved the people. The culture, the architecture._

_The food! I even tried a few meat dishes. Staying vegetarian was hard_ _😵_

_You’ll have to tell me about it when you get here. Sounds awesome._

_I will. How was your day?_

_Just working the festival. Plenty of customers today._

_Wore my pink shirt_ _😉_

_I bet you looked great._

_Then again, you’d look great in anything._

_😆 You can judge for yourself when you see it tomorrow._

_True! I’m going to go pick up my dinner now._

_See you tomorrow, Dean._

_Really looking forward to it_ _😃_

_👍_

Dean finished his plate, heated up another half-serving, and finished eating on one of the stools around the kitchen island. He started the dishwasher, wiped down the counters, and made himself a cup of after-dinner mint tea. Crowley strolled past him to the pantry as he waited for the water to boil.

“Off to work?” Dean said. “Good. The last thing we want is for Cass to see a mouse while he’s here.”

Crowley’s tail flicked as he vanished into the dark larder.

Dean left the leaves to steep. He walked to the linen closet underneath the staircase and loaded up his arms, then headed up the stairs to his old room.

There were clean sheets on the bed, but Dean couldn’t remember when he’d put them on. He rarely had a reason to come to this room. He stripped the bedding from the mattress and began making it up with fresh sheets for Castiel, looking around at the furnishings and decorations to see if anything wasn’t up to snuff as he worked.

There wasn’t much in here. Dean had kept things pretty spartan when this was his room, mostly because his father endlessly complained that Henry’s antique- and knick-knack-filled house was “disorganized” and “feminine”—two of John’s favored terms of derision. Dean didn’t want to draw his dad’s scorn in the same way, though he always found it curious that, in spite of all his grumbling, John barely changed a thing about Henry’s home in fifteen years.

Once the sheets, pillowcases, and duvet were neatly in place, Dean lay a towel and a washcloth at the corner of the bed. He cracked the window to the cool night air, making sure the insect screen was tight on the frame. The framed photograph of his mother on the nightstand caught his eye. After a moment’s thought, he decided not to move it. If Castiel asked him to, he’d be happy to tell him about her.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Dean woke up at his normal time the next morning. To his surprise, his phone buzzed with a text from Castiel a couple minutes later, before his alarm even went off.

_Good morning! I hope this isn’t too early…I know you get up early._

Dean rubbed his eyes and sat up against his headboard.

 _I’m awake. Surprised you are_ _😛_

_I had a hard time sleeping._

_Guess I’m too excited._

_Oh yeah?_

_What are you excited for?_

_Trying more of your cooking_

_Exploring your farm_

_Most of all, spending time with you._

_Easy, tiger_ _😏_

 _Sorry, there’s my no filter again_ _😇_

 _I’m used to it_ _🙈_

_When’s Sam picking you up?_

_4:30_

_Oh! We’re bringing dinner. Did Sam tell you?_

_No…but now I’m scared._

_We’re not cooking it_ _😛 We’re picking up lasagna and garlic bread from Vesta’s Calabrian Kitchen in Georgetown._

 _So you don’t have to cook after working all day_ _😊_

_Awesome!_

_I appreciate that. Not often I get to take the night off cooking._

Castiel didn’t respond right away. A few seconds later, the alarm clock on Dean’s nightstand started playing “Heat of the Moment” on the local classic rock station. Dean switched it off.

_Sam said we’ll get there sometime around 6. Will you be done working by then?_

_Yeah, probably. We close up earlier today since it’s Sunday._

_Speaking of…I should get ready._

_Have to get naked and wet, to quote you_ _😉_

_Mmm._

_See you this afternoon, then._

_Catch ya later_ _😉_

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

“You seem happy,” Charlie said, during a break between customers.

Dean licked his lips, closed his thermos of coffee. “Must be the caffeine.”

“No, it’s more than that.” She tapped her sneaker against his leather boot. “You’re bouncing up and down. On the balls of your feet.”

“I’m not,” Dean said, going still immediately.

“And there’s like—” She craned her neck to see around his shoulder. “Dean, you have the biggest smile on your face. You should see it. Seriously, it’s enough to scare off customers.”

“Customers like a smiling face.”

“They like a friendly smile. Not a…‘free candy if you get in my van’ smile.”

Dean scowled. “Well, now I’m not smiling. Happy?”

“Spill.”

“No.”

“Come on, spill. We’ve got seven more hours here, you know I’ll bug you until you tell me.”

Dean looked up and down the street, hoping to be saved by a customer. Everyone in the vicinity was slowly perusing the adjacent stalls. Dean sighed.

“It’s Cass,” he said. “He’s coming over tonight, with Sam. For dinner.”

“Dinner.”

“Yeah. And then…he’s going to stay over. For a few days.”

“Oh.” Charlie blinked, then suddenly sat up. “Oh!”

“In his own room,” Dean blurted. “His own bathroom, even. Really, his own wing of the house, if you think about it.”

Charlie shook her head. She was wheezing with laughter.

“And you wonder why I don’t tell you things.”

“Sorry. No, really. I shouldn’t be laughing. It’s just—it’s so cute.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. You know how I know?”

Dean offered her the barest of inquiring glances.

“I know because, no matter how irked you’re pretending to be right now, it’s all for my benefit. Underneath, you’re still thinking about the thing—person—who put that smile on your face, and nothing I say is going to bring you down. It’s like flying, isn’t it?”

“I hope not. Flying makes me hurl.”

“Whatever romantic cliché you prefer, then. Butterflies?”

“What did I tell you about this chick flick crap?”

“Please. You’re probably sappier than me. I saw _Heartland_ in your Netflix list.”

“I like the scenery,” Dean said lamely.

“Scenery makes you blush?”

“Okay, look. You wanted me to tell you what’s going on, and I did. Cass is just staying over for a few days because he’s curious about farm life—”

“Bet that’s not the only thing he’s curious about.”

“And—and everything else you’re rambling about is your imagination getting away from you.”

“Of course.” Charlie nodded. “Because you’re straight, right? 100%.”

“Exactly,” Dean said, after a moment’s hesitation. It was less than a second, but—judging by the flicker of recognition in her eyes—Charlie caught it all the same.

“Then I guess that’s that.” Charlie stepped forward to the couple who were approaching the stall. “Morning! How’re you guys doing?”

Dean unscrewed his thermos and raised it to his lips, hiding his expression behind the metal. His face still felt hot and red. Without thinking, he resumed bouncing on the balls of his feet, only realizing what he was doing when Charlie passed him on her way to one of the crates and smiled.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Even though there was still a healthy crowd in the park, Dean decided to start packing up and breaking down the stall at 5:20. Charlie gave him a look when he said that Sam and Castiel were arriving at six.

“That’s why we’re closing up now?”

“You’re complaining about getting off early?” Dean hefted one of the crates of syrup. “Someone call Hell and tell them there’s a cold front heading their way.”

Once they’d finished loading the truck, Dean offered to drop her off at her apartment. She declined.

“It’s only a few blocks. Besides, you clearly have better things to do.”

“Better things to—oh.” Dean rolled his eyes. “I guess it was too much to hope that we were done talking about that.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” She waved and walked off. “See you Saturday!”

Dean drove the truck up the northwest highway out of the city. Surprisingly for the number of tourists who were in town for the festival, the roads were quiet, and Dean rolled down his window to the spring breeze. At the warehouse, he parked the truck and slid into Baby, taking a moment to settle his zigzagging nerves before he pulled out.

He crested the rise just in time to see Sam’s car coming to a stop in front of the garage. Sam’s taillights went dim and he and Castiel, small and shaded by the yard’s ancient trees, emerged from the car. Castiel spun around in slow circles, his head tipped skyward.

Dean turned onto the path of red oaks and parked beside Sam. Sam and Castiel were waiting for him at the bottom of the brick path that led to the front door; Sam was holding a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread, Castiel a sheet pan of what Dean assumed was the lasagna he’d mentioned.

“There he is,” Sam called. “Our hard worker.”

“Like my shirt?” Dean pointed both index fingers to his collar.

“Pink suits you.” Castiel winked. “Isn’t this perfect timing?”

Dean grinned and twirled his keyring in his hand. Castiel was more put together than in most of his social media pictures, though not as much as he had been last Sunday—dark jeans, white T-shirt, a washed-out cyan hoodie. Luckily, his bedhead was intact, and the sunlight of the golden hour glowed in each individual strand.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said, once Sam raised his eyebrows at him. “Good timing. Want to head in?”

Dean led the way up the path to the house. He snuck a glance over his shoulder to see where Castiel’s eyes were, but he seemed to be looking up at the roof, or maybe the shutters or chimneys.

Dean almost felt disappointed.

“This house is magnificent,” Castiel said. “You can feel the history. Look at that fanlight above the front entryway.”

“Yeah, uh, 1815 I think was when it was built? Dean, you remember?”

“1815 sounds right. Our great-grandfather restored a lot of it in the 1920s, though. Pretty sure that was when Dad said it happened.” Dean turned his key in the door. “Alright, welcome. We take our shoes off, Cass. Don’t want to track anything from the farm back in here.”

“Same at my apartment,” Castiel said. “Oh, Dean, could you?”

“Yeah.” Dean grabbed the lasagna from Castiel’s hands and walked it to the kitchen island. “Sammy, get the light.”

The track lights illuminated the kitchen tiles, and Dean looked down to see Crowley circling warily near the refrigerator. Dean reached down for him. Crowley squirmed in protest.

“Cass? This is Crowley.”

“Hello.” Castiel waved. “Aren’t you handsome. Just like your human.”

Sam chuckled. “Hey, why don’t you show Cass around the house? I’ll take care of dinner.”

“You sure?” Dean kissed Crowley’s head.

“I’m just throwing this in the oven and making a salad. Look, they even included an instruction card with the order.”

“Alright.” Dean released Crowley, who stalked off with his tail held high. “Cass, you ready for a tour?”

“I can’t wait, Dean.”

“Okay. Uh, this is the kitchen, obviously. Just make yourself at home, help yourself to anything you want. I can show you where everything is later, once we’re not in Sam’s way. I bought some things for you at the grocery store.”

“Dean, you didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did. You’re my guest.” Dean beckoned Castiel along with him. “The pantry’s through here.”

He turned on the fluorescent lights, which flickered alive in sequence to the end of the room.

“Whoa.”

“Huh?”

“This pantry is enormous. Cavernous. It reminds me of the wine cellar at my father’s house.”

Dean snorted. “Wine cellar?”

“Yeah.” Castiel shrugged; he averted his eyes. “It’s not as impressive as it sounds. A lot of people have them.”

“If you say so.” Dean walked down one of the rows, then cut down the middle to the other one. “There’s plenty of food in here. You know, in case you want a snack and nothing in the fridge strikes your fancy. You could always ask me to make you something, too.”

“I think I might come here to forage late at night. I usually need a midnight snack while writing.”

“Yeah, you’ll probably be on your own by then. I’ll already be in bed or close to it.” Dean scratched his neck. “Um, I might as well get this out of the way now. I know you’re a night owl, but try not to knock on my door while I’m asleep. Unless it’s an emergency, obviously. I’ll be grumpy if I have to wake up and I don’t want to snap at you.”

“Ah. You’re an angry sleeper. Like a bear.”

“I just need my rest. Farm labor kills your body, especially if you’re tired.” Dean gestured over his shoulder. “We’re going out there next.”

“What’s that?”

Dean held open the greenhouse door for Castiel; the scent of chlorophyll and warm humus billowed into the larder. “Take a look.”

“Wow!” He jogged to the bottom of the concrete stairs and looked around, his hands on his hips. “I noticed this from the driveway, but it’s so much bigger from the inside.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, our great-granddad built this greenhouse in the twenties. Part of the process of remodeling and adding to the original building.”

Castiel walked to one of the walls and traced the edge of a windowpane with his fingertips. “I can see the influence of the period. These are Art Deco lines.” He turned back and let out a sigh. “Dean, your home is even more beautiful than I imagined. It’s like a museum. I feel as if I’m about to cry.”

“Hey, don’t get too carried away. We still have most of the house to get through.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself, then.” He started down one of the rows of crops, and Dean followed him. “Are these all things for the farm? I guess they must be.”

“Most of them, yeah. A certain number of berry plants have to be replaced each season. Old age, disease, that kind of thing. I can sow a late summer or autumn planting but it’s easier to work with starts if I have to plant in the spring.” Dean pointed to the quadrant closest to the stairs into the house. “That side’s all stuff for me. Us. Not the farm.”

“Like what?”

“Herbs, greens, other vegetables. There’s an herb garden outside, too, around the deck. A vegetable patch in the backyard. Not everything can survive the winter, though.”

As if on cue, Sam emerged through the side door and waved across the greenhouse.

“Getting stuff for the salad,” he said.

“Do you need help?” Castiel said.

“No, I’m good.” He bent down and started ripping leaves of lettuce and arugula from their planters. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

“Let’s keep going,” Dean said. “There’s still plenty more I want to show you.”

He and Castiel returned to the house through the larder. Dean stopped them in the middle of the kitchen.

“Plates and bowls here, glasses and mugs there, that drawer’s the silverware, bread in the breadbox—oh, here.” Dean opened the refrigerator. “I got you some stuff I thought you might like. Things you don’t have to cook. Soy milk, string cheese, carrot sticks, and some vegetarian tamales you can microwave. If you get hungry when I’m not around.”

“Dean—”

“We can drive to the store if you want something else. Was planning on it, actually. And I’ll be cooking dinner for us, of course.” Dean swallowed. For some reason, his mouth wouldn’t shut up.

“Hey, Dean.” Castiel squeezed his shoulder. “This is all amazing. But you might want to pace yourself. Relax, you know? You’ve had a long day.”

“Yeah.” Dean let out a breath. “I’m just…I don’t know.”

Castiel rubbed his thumb over the pink cotton of Dean’s polo shirt.

“Is it okay to say I’m excited?” Dean said, watching Castiel’s hand. “Does that sound weird to say in person?”

Castiel shrugged. “Depends on how you mean.”

“Not like that,” Dean laughed. He pushed Castiel’s hand away gently.

There was the sound of the latch on the greenhouse door, then Sam’s footsteps. Dean flicked his chin to the hall, and they made their departure.

“This is the main hallway,” Dean said, once they were standing at the foot of the stairs. “You probably already guessed that. It runs down the middle of the house, front to back. That’s the linen closet if you need more towels or sheets. That French door at the back leads out to the deck. Here, let’s go right.”

Dean twisted the dimmer for the chandelier above the dining table, glowing it yellow with electronic candlelight.

“This is the dining room. Sam and I usually eat dinner here. Breakfast and lunch, no point bothering. I just eat in the kitchen or on the deck. You can eat your meals wherever you want, though.”

“Beautiful table.” Castiel ran his hand along the grain. “What a rich wood.”

“That’s one of Henry’s antiques,” Dean said proudly. “I think it used to be part of the hull of a whaling ship back in the 19th century.”

“Amazing.”

“Oh, and that door opens to the kitchen. I usually leave it open. I closed it to get behind to vacuum and forgot to open it back up again. This weekend’s been so busy.” Dean turned the knob and slid the doorstop into place. “You can wave to Sam.”

Sam looked up from his salad bowl and smiled. “Having fun?”

“You lied on the drive over here,” Castiel pouted. “Dean, his exact words were, ‘our house isn’t anything special, honestly.’”

“I wanted Dean to see the look on your face. He takes good care of this place, you know? He deserves it.”

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean wasn’t sure if his tone had come out more genuine or sarcastic. “Oh, that French door leads out to the deck too, Cass. And there’s a third one in the living room. It’s nice to open all of them on summer nights when it’s hot and sticky. Really helps cool the place down. Let’s go across to the other side of the hall now.”

When they crossed the threshold of the living room, Castiel did what Dean had expected he’d do. Indeed, it was what most people did when they entered it for the first time: he twirled around artlessly, staring at the walls and ceiling.

“It’s—it’s round!”

“Well, technically, it’s an ellipse. Which is apparently a fancy way of saying oval.” Dean walked to the wall above the couch and straightened the portrait of one of his and Sam’s long-dead ancestors. “Dad used to say this was Henry’s favorite room. He had a thing for geometry.”

“This fireplace—the mantel, the fire screen, the understated gold inlay around the bottom—it’s all exquisite.” Castiel turned to him. “Your grandfather had excellent taste.”

“Oh.” Dean collapsed onto the couch, sat back, and spread his legs wide. “Yeah, I like to think it runs in the family.”

Sam guffawed from the kitchen. “Kill me. Please just kill me.”

“I can arrange that,” Dean shouted over his shoulder.

Castiel was walking along the room’s curved wall, examining each of the paintings and mounted weapons as he passed them. Thankfully, it seemed like he’d barely registered anything that had happened since he last spoke. At least there were occasional upsides to him being a space cadet.

“What’s this?” Castiel said, pulling at a seam in the wall.

“Spear closet. One at each corner. That one has the modem in it, so it’s good you brought it up. If the internet goes down while I’m out on the farm, you can restart it there.”

“Got it.” Castiel’s circuit had brought him to the arm of the couch, and he tilted his head at Dean. “Are you tired, Dean? We can do the rest later.”

“No, I’m good. Just figured I’d relax here while you were looking around.”

“Well, you do look relaxed.” Castiel glanced at Dean’s thighs; his tongue darted out to the corner of his mouth. “Here, I’ll help you up.”

Castiel pulled him upright, and Dean couldn’t help noticing that both of them held onto each other longer than they strictly needed to.

“Uh…library next,” Dean said. “That way.”

He let Castiel lead the way through the door to the left of the fireplace. Castiel crooked his neck back to see up to the tops of the bookshelves on the wall.

“Of course,” he said. “What _Architectural Digest_ tour would be complete without a library?”

“I don’t spend much time in here,” Dean said. “You’re welcome to use it. Seems like it’d be a good place to do your writing.”

“Not much of a reader, Dean?”

“No, it’s not that. I mean, I’m not exactly LeVar Burton, but it’s more that I don’t have a lot of spare time than me not wanting to read.”

“That’s fair enough. Nice view of the front yard from this window,” Castiel noted.

“Yeah, especially in the fall. Those oaks lining the driveway turn bright red, and the sugar maples along the road go yellow and orange, some of them even purple.”

Castiel began to peruse the pile of books on the reading table. Dean didn’t remember leaving them there—Sam had probably done some reading over the week he’d stayed. After a moment, Castiel sighed.

“What a lovely little piece of the world you have. I already think I’m going to find it hard to leave.”

They returned to the living room, Dean mulling over those words. He knew he should stop being so reckless, but the thought of Castiel remaining here, spending each night putting off the day of his return to the big city, was one that was sounding better and better the more he turned it over in his mind.

“This part of the house is less glamorous,” Dean said. He switched on the mudroom light. “Anytime we work on the farm, we come through here and clean up. It’s also where I stack the firewood when I bring it in—well, as you can see. And there’s the washer and dryer. If you need to do any laundry, you can throw your stuff in with mine. If—I mean, if you like. You can do your own, too.”

“Or you could throw your clothes in with my clothes,” Castiel suggested.

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“What I mean is that I could do our laundry. You work outside all day and I’ll just be sitting at a desk. It’s a simple thing for me to do it for us.”

Dean nodded. _Our laundry._ There was something intimate about those words, even though—for once—Castiel hadn’t seemed to imbue what he’d said with any flirtation.

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that. Oh, and that’s Crowley’s litterbox. Careful for it when you come around the corner.”

Dean opened the door at the side of the mudroom and beckoned Castiel in.

“Bathroom. We never really use that shower, but it’s convenient to have one off the mudroom in case you fall into a catchment basin filled with scummy rainwater. Yes, that’s happened to me.”

“Aw.”

“Don’t feel too bad. I pulled Sam in with me when he started laughing.”

“That’s considerate of you. Speaking of Sam, I don’t think he can hear us all the way over here. I wanted to ask you something about him.”

“This should be good.”

“Is he always so….” Castiel’s eyes darted back and forth. “Invested in you making new friends?”

Dean laughed.

“I know that sounds stilted. I apologize.”

“No, I’m laughing at Sam, not you. Thing is, we’re close. He’s always looking for ways to get into my business and just generally be annoying. Did you know I started talking to you on Instagram because he said I should?”

“I didn’t know that, no. I’ll have to thank him for it.”

“Actually, me too. But yeah, he meddles. Maybe a little more than usual with you.”

That was an understatement to the point of dishonesty—Sam usually approached anyone Dean showed an interest in with cool nonchalance. More than one of Dean's long-term hookups had referred to him as “your stuck-up little brother” at the end of things. There were women Sam seemed to resonate with more than others, but his enthusiasm for Castiel was on a completely different level. He had no idea why his brother was so keen on Castiel, but Dean would be lying if he said that wasn’t the endorsement that mattered more to him than any other in the world.

“He’s kind of thought the whole thing’s funny all along,” Dean continued, scratching his cheek. “Maybe he thinks you can convert me. He’d find that hilarious.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Porn isn’t real life, Dean. No one gets ‘converted.’” He turned to the bathroom mirror and looked down their shared reflection, then up into Dean’s eyes. “Pushing on an open door, on the other hand? Well, I’ve always thought almost everyone’s at least a little bi.”

Dean cleared his throat and took a step back. The mirror made them look like they were standing closer than they were.

“Sorry. I even surprise myself with the things I say sometimes. We should probably go on with the tour before I make things more awkward.”

“Um, sure. We’re going to the second floor next.”

They returned to the hall, which was now filled with the scent of melting mozzarella and bubbling marinara sauce. Sam was working on the cork of a wine bottle.

“You guys want to take drinks with you?”

“I better not,” Castiel said. “I’m not very coordinated. I’d probably drop it and get myself in trouble.”

“How much more time do we have?” Dean said.

Sam glanced at the kitchen timer. “15 minutes.”

“Alright, we better get a move on, then.”

Dean stopped them about a third of the way up the stairs, where it just started to curve into the arc that spiraled upward through the next two floors. This was one of the rare spots that John had made his own after the three of them moved in 17 years ago.

“Family photos,” Dean said. “That’s me and Dad working on a car at my uncle Bobby’s place in South Dakota. Me and Sam sleeping in the back seat of the Impala; I think I was like 11 there. Me riding one of Henry’s horses—I’m smiling, but that’s literally right before I fell off.”

“You have horses here?”

“Nah, we used to. Dad sold them not too long after we got here. He didn’t know how to take care of them and we kind of needed the money back then. At least I got a few rides in beforehand.”

Castiel peered at one of the pictures off to the side. “Who’s this? Is she…?”

“That’s my mom. That’s all of us at the hospital, a couple days after Sammy was born.”

“She’s beautiful. I can see where you get your smile from.”

Dean nodded appreciatively but didn’t say anything back. Despite what he’d thought last night when he gazed at her picture on the nightstand, he found himself reluctant now to talk about his mother and her absence in his life—about things from deep in the past and yet entangled with the present in a way Henry’s antiques were not. But then, opening himself up to someone new had always been two steps forward, one step back.

“We better keep going. Sam’s got us on a clock.”

The stairs opened up to the vista of the east side of the house, where the twilight gloomed in through the Palladian window above the front door. Castiel pressed his hands into the top of the cypress smoking stand at the hallway’s end and peered out.

“Like the view?” Dean stood next to him, leaned into his shoulder to see the view south. “If you look over the trees, you can see where our road goes down the valley and into town. Until it passes behind Fortuna Orchards, at least.”

“Is that Winchester?” Castiel said.

“Yeah. That’s Old Town in the center there. You can probably see some of the church steeples if you squint. Come back here an hour from now and you’ll see all the city lights.”

“I like this spot, Dean.” He stroked the window column and gazed in the other direction, where the state route led north to the border with West Virginia.

“This was one of granddad’s favorite parts of the house, too. My dad said he’d stand here and smoke every morning after breakfast before he went down to the farm for the day. It’s the first part of the house that gets warm and bright when the sun comes up.”

“Ah. Then I can’t wait to see it in the morning.”

Dean smiled. He patted Castiel’s arm to get him to turn around to the hallway.

“Okay, let’s see. First door on the right here’s a bathroom. That’s probably the one you’ll be using the most. The shower heats up fast, so be careful. Also, there’s a window in there that faces the front yard, so unless you’re an exhibitionist, don’t forget to close the curtains.”

“Ah. I’m not overly modest, but that’s good to know.”

“Next door on the right is Sam’s room. He sleeps there when he stays the night. Holidays, mostly. And the last door is my old room. I’ve made it up for you.”

They walked down the hallway, Dean drumming his fingers on the banister and Castiel pausing every few feet to comment on the cream and azure wallpaper, the old wig stand, the cutlass and flintlock pistol mounted in a narrow V. Dean opened the door and let Castiel walk through first.

“Yeah, so, I know it’s nothing special. I didn’t really decorate it much when it was mine.”

“No, Dean. It’s perfect. Smells nice, too.” His cheeks dimpled as he looked down. “Smells like you.”

“Hopefully it smells like me before farmwork and not after.” Dean cleared his throat. “Uh, I put fresh sheets on the bed. And left a towel for you there. The mattress is pretty comfy; I got it like six months before I moved rooms. Feel free to use the closet and the dresser; there might be some stuff in there I couldn’t find a place for anywhere else, but there’s plenty of room still. Here’s my old desk and chair. The window’s a little finicky. If it gives you trouble, try pulling in and lifting with both hands. Oh, and one last thing: Crowley’s not allowed in the bedrooms when no one’s watching him, so close the door when you’re not inside and when you go to bed. Uh, please.”

“Got it.” Castiel walked to the closet, looked in, sat down at the desk, turned the lamp on and then off again. “My bag’s still in Sam’s car. Don’t let me forget to grab that.”

Back in the hallway, Dean led the way down the gallery of rear windows to the southern end of the house. The air was thick with the smell of lasagna and now garlic bread, so Dean guessed they only had a few minutes left.

“That’s my office.” Dean gestured to the open door. “I mainly use it on the weekend, when I do ordering, accounts, stuff like that. Or when I’m posting on the food blog.”

“Looks comfy,” Castiel said, craning his neck to see around the doorframe. “I like the beanbag.”

“Oh, yeah.” Dean rubbed his nape. “That’s my addition. Sam said it looked stupid in the living room, so I brought it up here.”

“You should’ve told him to stop being such a stick in the mud.”

“I don’t know. That’d be like him losing half his personality.” Dean switched off the light and started down the short hallway that ended with his bedroom. “Another bathroom here, on the left. This is the one I use, since it’s right next to my room. Feel free to use it, though.”

“Maybe I’ll alternate between all three.”

“Sure, if that’s how you get your freak on.” Dean hesitated, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “And, um, this is my room.”

“Aren’t you going to show it to me?”

“Uh. Okay, I guess.”

Dean turned the doorknob and entered the room first. The first thing that caught his eye was the overflowing wicker basket of laundry at the foot of his bed from which a faded flannel and a pair of dirty jeans were making their great escape. The week had been so busy that he hadn’t even had time to wash his clothes.

“It’s so big,” Castiel said.

“You know, women tell me that all the time.” Dean winked. “When they see the room, I mean.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. He seemed irritated by that, which wasn’t an emotion Dean was used to seeing from him.

“Um, yeah. Well, sorry for the mess. I didn’t really tidy it up like the rest of the house.”

“Don’t worry, Dean. It’s far neater than my bedroom.” Castiel walked to the western window and looked out at the sunset. "Are those your berries?"

Dean finished stuffing his clothing into the laundry basket and joined Castiel at the window.

"No, those are the vegetable and flower beds. Most of the rows are edible flowers, but I only planted them a little over a week ago. Not much to look at, especially from up here." Dean pointed to their left. "See that gate over there? The road that goes through it takes you to the berry fields."

"Ah. I'd love to see them."

"You will, don’t worry. I mean, I'm always down there, so feel free to come with me whenever you have some time."

Castiel nodded, seemingly more to himself than Dean. There had been a change in him, subtle yet perceptible, since Dean's comment about women, and Dean was trying to guess why. Was it because he'd implied that he took new women home all the time? That wasn't even true anymore.

 _Nice job, idiot_ , Dean thought.

The sound of Sam's Sasquatch footsteps in the hallway interrupted his musings. His brother poked his head into the room a few seconds later.

"Hey guys," Sam said. "How's the tour going?"

"It's going well. Your brother was just showing me his room."

"Oh, okay." Sam shot Dean an incredulous look. "No time to waste, huh."

"Cass wanted to see it," Dean said defensively.

"Anyway, I just came up here to tell you guys dinner's on the table. We should eat before it gets cold."

"Good timing. Dean just finished showing me everything.”

“Well, except the attic," Dean said.

"What's in the attic?"

"Just storage," Sam said, as the three of them returned to the hallway.

"And the belvedere," Dean added.

"The what?"

"He loves showing off his architecture vocabulary," Sam said.

"Believe me, when you own a house this old, you need to learn the vocabulary." Dean held out his hand for Castiel to go ahead of him. "A belvedere's like...a little tower that comes up from the roof. It lets more air and light into the house. It's like a cupola. Or a roof lantern."

"I see," Castiel said.

"Didn't Dad say Henry used to have a telescope set up there? I never saw it."

"That's because Dad put it into storage the year we moved in. He was afraid a storm would damage it. Damn, that garlic bread smells good."

"Yeah, everyone in DC knows this restaurant. It was the first place we both thought of when Cass had the idea to bring dinner."

"This was your idea, Cass?" Dean turned to him at the threshold of the dining room. "You never said that. Thank you."

"Well, you deserve to be taken care of, too." Castiel pulled out the chair at the head of the table. "Here, Dean."

Dean's face felt hot and red during the toast Sam dedicated to "the primordial gods of take and bake"; his free hand tapped his thigh restlessly when Castiel stared at him over the rim of his wine glass. No one had ever pulled out his chair for him or brought him a special dinner from out of state before. It was something he could see himself getting used to.

"So, you've seen the house," Sam was saying. "All the mounted 18th\- and 19th-century weapons notwithstanding, you can be reasonably sure Dean's not a murderer."

"Well, I haven't seen the basement," Castiel deadpanned. "More wine?"

"Yeah, please," Dean said. "Dude, by the way, 'notwithstanding?'"

"Sorry. I spend too much time around other attorneys." Sam served himself a second helping of salad. "Anyway, the point I was working up to is that you know all about us, but I realize I don't know a whole lot about you."

"I suppose that's true," Castiel said slowly. "What do you want to know?"

"I don't know. Anything. You're an interesting, fascinating person. I mean, where'd you grow up, for starters?"

Dean frowned. "That your first glass?"

"Of course it is, jerk. I have to drive back tonight."

"Let’s see. I was born in Boston, but I grew up in Maine. Spent most of my life before I turned 18 on a windswept speck off the coast named Providence Island."

"You're a Mainer? What do you think of Susan Collins?"

"I'm very, very concerned for her," Castiel replied. "There's already a lot of money on the table for her opponent."

Sam burst out laughing, then turned to Dean. "She says she's concerned every time Trump does something crazy. That's why—"

"I know," Dean said reflexively, though he only had a vague idea of what they were talking about. Reading about and watching politics—the platitudes, the endless gainsaying, the compounding problems that were never met with adequate solutions—fatigued him. He preferred to leave it to other people.

"I went to Bowdoin for my undergraduate," Castiel continued. "Too close, in retrospect."

Like Cass. Cass was a good person, yet he knew more about politics than anyone Dean had ever met. He'd vote for Cass for president.

Sam wiped his mouth with his napkin. "How do you mean, too close?"

"Not far enough away from my family. It's always a drama with them. I had other reasons to stay close to home, but...who knows. It's not like I can go back and change things now, in any case."

Sam nodded, then threw a look at Dean.

"Oh. Um, what'd you do after that?" Dean tipped the wine bottle over Castiel's glass. "And sorry if this feels like a job interview all of a sudden."

"No, no. Sam's right, it's only fair that I level the playing field. I traveled for a while after graduation. Latin America, Southeast Asia, Europe. All the clichéd millennial places."

"How long?" Sam said.

"Almost two years. I came back to the US here and there, though."

"Wow." Sam shifted in his seat. "How'd you—I mean, how'd you support yourself?”

"Sam!"

"It's fine, Dean. I had some money saved up. You'd be surprised at how far you can stretch a dollar when you're willing to forgo creature comforts. Like indoor plumbing. Sometimes."

"Don't worry, Sam and I grew up dirt poor on the road. We know all about that."

"We usually had indoor plumbing," Sam said. "Usually."

"After that, for a few years in my twenties, I just bounced around. I was a yoga instructor in New Zealand for about nine months. Spent a little over a year winterizing houses for low-income elderly folks in Maine. I wrote a left-wing blog in my spare time that garnered a decent following. Eventually, I applied to do my doctoral research in political science at a few places. The University of Maryland offered me a spot with full funding and—" he sipped his wine. "Well, that brings us to now."

"Wow." Dean cut himself another square of lasagna. "I tell you, Cass, your life's been a hell of a lot more interesting than mine."

"I don't know." Castiel winked. "I find you very interesting."

"Um. Okay then." Sam cleared his throat. "We've been talking so much, I lost track of time. I better head out."

"Already?" Castiel glanced at his watch. "It's only eight."

"Yeah, but by the time I get home it'll be 9:30, later if there's traffic." Sam pulled out his keys. "I'll bring your stuff in for you."

"I can do it."

"No, really." Sam gestured for Castiel to sit down. "I've got it. Just enjoy your dinner. Keep Dean company."

Dean and Castiel didn't speak until the front door closed.

"He's not very subtle, is he?" Castiel said.

"What?" Dean sputtered.

"It just seems that he worries about you." Castiel corralled the last bite of salad on his plate. "That's part of the reason for all those questions, isn't it?"

"He's just curious," Dean said. "Nosy, really."

Castiel didn't seem convinced. Dean wasn't sure he was either. They raised their wine to their lips at the same time, and Castiel had just polished his off when the door opened again.

"Cass," Sam called from the front of the house. "Alright if I just leave everything at the foot of the stairs?"

"Of course. Thank you." Castiel got up and walked into the hallway, and Dean joined him.

"What's the damn hurry?" Dean said.

"No hurry." Sam swept his hair behind his ears again. "You know I always wish I could stay longer, Dean. I just want to start driving back before I get too tired."

"Okay." Dean enfolded him in a hug. "Try to drive out earlier next Sunday, then. We'll do a special dinner for Cass's last night here."

"Yeah, I will. Cass?"

Sam embraced him. Dean laughed at Castiel's expression of surprise.

"He really squeezes when he hugs, huh?”

"You're telling me." Castiel coughed. "Can you take me to get a chest X-ray tomorrow? I think your brother cracked one of my ribs."

"It's not a real hug unless you get the wind knocked out of you," Sam said. "Alright, take care of him, Cass."

"I will."

"And Dean—" Sam paused with his hand on the doorjamb. "Text me if you need any help—I mean, advice—"

"Will do," Dean said, before Sam had a chance to say anything else. "Now get out of here already."

Sam waved; the door reverberated shut. Dean watched the driveway through the sidelight until Sam's taillights disappeared beyond the red oak trees.

"I'll, um, take my things up," Castiel said. "I'll be right back down, though."

"You need help with anything?"

"No thanks. I've got it."

Dean turned on the staircase light and watched Castiel ascend into it for a few seconds. Then, he walked back to the dining room and finished the last few bites of his meal. He started clearing the table, first wrapping up the lasagna and salad and stowing them in the refrigerator, then loading the dishwasher with their plates, forks, and glasses. Finally, he wiped down the dining table and softened the chandelier.

He'd just finished the cleaning when he heard Castiel’s footsteps on the stairs again. Dean emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands with a dishtowel, and they nearly collided at the corner.

“Sorry. Hey.”

“Hey, Dean. Sorry for taking so long. I was finding a home for my clothes, toiletries, laptop. I prefer to not live out of a suitcase when I can help it."

"No problem. I cleared the table while you were doing that, so we can just relax now."

"You did? Now I feel bad for not helping."

"You and Sam took care of dinner. The least I could do was handle cleanup." Dean slung the dishtowel over his shoulder. “Want to have a drink with me? Now that Sam’s gone, we can break out the good stuff.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Good stuff?”

“I just didn’t want to make him jealous by drinking anything harder than wine when he couldn’t.”

“We’re getting drunk, then?” Castiel shrugged. “Why not? We have a reason to celebrate.”

“Not _drunk_ ,” Dean said, walking back to the dining room. “Happy. Tipsy.”

Dean pulled the strawberry brandy, triple sec, and cocktail shaker from the bar cart, then passed through the door to the kitchen. Castiel followed his movements, perching on a stool on the other side of the island once Dean started peeling twists from a lemon.

“I’m making you a special drink, Cass.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. This strawberry brandy was made with heirloom berries from my farm. I don’t think you’ve ever tasted anything quite like it.”

“Well, it already smells good.”

“That’s just the lemon. Well, and—” Dean held up a single strawberry. “This isn’t mine, sorry. I got a shipment in from South Carolina a couple days ago of a cultivar I’ve been wanting to try. The season’s already started down there.”

“Nice color.”

“I agree. Aroma’s nice, too. We’ll have to see how it tastes.” Dean slid the cocktail shaker across the birch. “Do me a favor, Cass. Fill that three-quarters of the way with ice from the dispenser.”

Dean brought down two cocktail glasses from the top shelf of one of the cabinets, almost bumping into Castiel again when he turned around.

“We’re going to break something eventually,” Castiel laughed, stepping back only a few inches.

“You think so?” Dean said. He glanced at Castiel’s lips.

“I’ll—” He set the cocktail shaker on the counter. “I’ll just leave that there.”

Dean watched Castiel circle around to the opposite side of the island. When he sat on the stool again, he kept his eyes fixed on the cutting board.

“I’m making us sidecars,” Dean said eventually, once he’d finished squeezing and measuring the lemon juice. “With strawberry brandy instead of cognac. It’s a really bright drink. Citrus and berries. Balanced, understated sweetness, vintage flair.”

Castiel grinned. “Like you?”

“Yeah, like me,” Dean said, without thinking much about whether he agreed with the analogy. He just liked seeing Castiel smile.

Dean shook the drinks over his shoulder, winking when Castiel chuckled.

“You’d be a good bartender,” Castiel said. “That face would bring in all the tips.”

“Nah, I hate listening to people whine.” Dean strained the cocktails over their glasses, squatting down to eyeball them for evenness. “Guess that’s the farmer in me. Underdeveloped people skills.”

“You seem pretty skilled at talking to people to me.”

“Maybe I just like talking to _you_.” Dean pushed the strawberry halves onto the rims and curled the lemon twists around them. “Here you go, Cass.”

“Thanks. Wow, this looks and smells incredible.”

Dean picked up his cocktail glass. He leaned over the island, meeting Castiel halfway, and rested his elbow on the butcher block. With his other hand, he readied his phone’s camera.

“What are we toasting to?” Castiel said, once Dean had snapped a picture of two drinks and two hands.

“Not sure. You have an idea?”

“To the power of social media to bring people together. Thank you, Mark Zuckerberg. Oh, and to pink shirts.”

“Nope,” Dean said. “Don’t be snarky, I want a real toast for our first time.”

“First time?”

“Yeah, well—I mean, the first time it’s just us. Drinking together and…stuff.”

“Hmm. Okay.”

“How about—how about: to Sam, for convincing me to talk to you.”

“We should save that one for when he’s actually here, don’t you think?”

“Then I don’t know, Cass. You think of something.”

Castiel looked up at the ceiling for a few seconds, his blue eyes glowing bright under the track lights.

“To thinking not that we can direct the course of love,” Castiel said finally. “For love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.”

“Wow,” Dean murmured.

“It’s from my favorite book.” Castiel actually seemed to be flushing red. “Do you—do you like it?”

Dean clinked his glass into Castiel’s. “I love it.”

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Strawberry Brandy Sidecars

_I’ve got something a little different for you all today. Every blog entry so far has been about food, which is the way it should be—we all have to eat, after all. Once in more than a blue moon, though, a day comes along when I really need a drink. This past week has been nonstop and I couldn’t wait to get home and kick my feet up. My brother gave me the night off cooking, which in turn gives me the perfect excuse to share this hot little number with my devoted readers._

_Each year, Winchester and Sons partners with Talbot's Distillery for a limited run of berry brandies. We had a bumper crop of strawberries a few years back and I'm still working my way through the strawberry brandy from it. I try not to promote my farm too much on here, but this stuff is just too good not to. It mixes beautifully with triple sec and lemons for a berry twist on the classic Sidecar. Serve this cocktail at your next outdoor party and find out what it's like to be everyone's new favorite person._

Mix time: 5 minutes

Serves 2

5 ounces strawberry brandy*

2 ounces triple sec

2 ounces lemon juice

Lemon twists and 1 strawberry for garnish

Before juicing the lemons, run your vegetable peeler or paring knife over them to create your lemon twists (if you're lucky enough to own a kitchen/bar cart well-stocked enough to include a channel knife, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that's another option). Slice the strawberry in half lengthwise, then notch a lengthwise slit part of the way up each half, starting at the bottom point.

Fill a large cocktail shaker most of the way with ice, then pour in the strawberry brandy, triple sec, and lemon juice. Shake until you see and feel frost on the outside, about 20-25 seconds, and strain into two cocktail glasses. Garnish the rims with lemon twists and strawberries.

*If you can't get your hands on strawberry brandy, try another fruit brandy (switching out the strawberry garnish for the relevant fruit). Another one I'm fond of in this drink is pear brandy.


	8. Cacio e Pepe with Garlicky Rainbow Chard

They only had the one cocktail that night. Dean had work to do on the farm the next day, and Castiel was writing. Besides, they’d been drinking wine all through dinner.

It surprised Dean—how much conversation was possible in the span of one drink; how much they had left to say to each other after the hours they’d already spent talking during the house tour and over dinner. If anything, the week of texting every day had only made him more eager to speak face to face. Castiel told him about Cuba, as he’d said he would: of narrow alleys painted in peeling turquoise and coral; of beaches where the rum flowed cheaper than water; of fiery sunsets on the esplanade, where the waves wore against the seawall like a patient suitor.

“Tell me about somewhere _you’ve_ been,” Castiel said, leaning back into the other end of the sofa. He was on the last sip of his cocktail, and the corner of his mouth was stained red with a bite of strawberry.

“Me?” Dean fluttered his lips. “Unless you feel like hearing about the diner menus at every jerkwater town between the Great Lakes and Texas, I don’t have many travel stories to tell you.”

“Is that the main thing you remember from back then?”

“The food? Yeah. I have a pretty good memory for food. I can tell you the best truck stop for a bacon cheeseburger and a slice of pie in nineteen different states.”

“That actually sounds like a useful skill to have.” Castiel placed his empty glass on the coffee table. “You know, it occurs to me that I’ve been all around the world, but I’ve never driven across the country.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, really. I’m not sure why. Just one of the things I haven’t gotten around to yet.”

“We could do it together,” Dean said. “You and me.”

“Yeah?” Castiel’s eyes crinkled, but there was some doubt there just behind the gladness. He crossed his legs.

“If you want to. It’d have to be in the winter, though. I can’t get away from the farm for longer than a few days any other time of year.”

“As long as you keep me warm.” Castiel winked.

“Oh, you.”

“I love when your cheeks go red like that.”

“I’ll get used to your lack of a filter eventually,” Dean said. “What’ll you do then?”

Castiel shrugged. “Try harder?”

Dean finished his sidecar; he loaded their glasses into the dishwasher and returned the liquor to the bar cart. He started turning off the lights downstairs, room after room, with Castiel following close behind.

“Careful,” Dean said. With the extinguishing of the lamp by the living room sofa, the first floor was lit only by the distant light above the staircase landing.

Castiel giggled. He pawed Dean’s upper arm.

“ _You_ be careful. I’m following you.”

“I could walk every inch of this place blindfolded. I’m worried you’ll trip and break your neck.”

Castiel laughed again. Dean glanced over his shoulder.

“What?”

“If I trip, I’ll fall onto you.”

Dean snorted. “So you’ll take me down with you? Thanks a lot.”

“What are friends for?”

“Alright, come on.” He patted Castiel’s hand. “Watch out for the stairs, they’re a little steep.”

They ascended the stairway. Castiel clung to his arm even after they’d reached the halo of light on the landing, but Dean didn’t move away.

“About tomorrow,” Dean said, once they were at the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“Text me if you need anything. I’ll be on the farm.”

“I will.” Castiel shuffled to the bathroom door and flipped on the light.

“And I’ll see you at dinner,” Dean added. “Or around lunchtime, maybe.”

“Maybe. If I’m up by then. I usually write until three a.m. or so, then fall asleep with some reading.”

“Alright. Um….” Dean rubbed his neck. “Goodnight, Cass.”

“Night, Dean.”

He waved and closed the door, and Dean made his way through the darkness to his bathroom. He showered, brushed his teeth, and crawled under the covers, feeling the tingling of his skin where Castiel had gripped his shoulder until he finally drifted off to sleep.

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The dawn was cloudless, which Dean noted as he hovered in front of the sink, eating his bowl of granola. After a gloomy last couple days, this week’s forecast was sunny and warm, which would be good for the berries. Not to mention the bees that were diligently pollinating them.

Cain Adamson, the apiarist who’d been working with the farm since Henry was running things, was coming to check on the hives today. Dean didn’t mind him: he was diligent, kept to himself, had a farmer’s wry and fatalistic sense of humor. He reminded Dean of an older version of himself.

As he poured out his second mug of coffee, Dean wondered how Castiel would react to the beehives. Probably like a typical indoor boy—run away with his arms flailing. He’d have to warn him about them before he showed him around the farm.

Dean cracked his neck and brought up Instagram while he ate. His cocktail picture from last night, in which he’d tagged Castiel, had over 7000 likes. Both his and Castiel’s follower count had ballooned over the past two weeks: Castiel was at 8300, and he was closing in on 5000. They’d been good for each other, even just in this superficial way.

 _I knew he was with you_ , one of the comments read. _You guys love teasing us._

 _You two are pure love_ _💕 I hope you’re enjoying your time together_ _💙💚_

 _This picture of your hands is missing something…_ _💍💍_

Dean looked down. He wiggled his ring finger. What he’d said to Castiel was true: he didn’t care what strangers thought of him. A thick skin was the price of entry to social media. Even so, he thought that he should be taking more offense to random people on the internet implying that he should marry a dude than he currently was. Right now, he mostly felt amused.

“Besides,” Dean said to Crowley, whose tail was trailing against his calf. “I can’t marry anyone before I see how they take to farmwork.”

Crowley meowed plaintively.

“Yeah, I get it. You’re not used to new people. But you’re going to have to get used to him. He’ll be here for a while.”

Crowley sauntered out of the kitchen, flicking his tail back and forth. A few more scrapes of his bowl and Dean was following him, making sure to leave the granola container front and center on the island so Castiel would see it.

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The plants in the flowerbeds were coming up well. Dean visited them after cleaning the bird coop and collecting eggs; he thought a week and a half was long enough for any early issues with the flower plants to reveal themselves. He’d been weeding the garden and setting up slug baits for about an hour when Cain’s ramshackle van rolled up to the farm’s gate and Dean waved him on.

“You put up more nets around the strawberries than last year,” Cain observed, once Dean had driven down to meet him.

“Yeah, I lost a lot of crop to some bird last year, right in the middle of the season. Seemed like it happened overnight.”

“My money’s on starlings. They’re the worst.”

“I don’t know what more I can do. I haven’t left any nesting sites open for them nearby.”

“They find a way. They’re relentless.” Cain put his hands on his hips and gazed up at the sky. “You almost admire their tenacity.”

Dean plucked at one of the nets. “These won’t bother the bees, will they?”

“Oh, no. I dare say they won’t even notice their presence. They only see the task immediately before them. I suppose they’re like farmers in that way.”

Cain was still working with the hives when Dean returned to the house for lunch, but he assured Dean that he had everything well in hand. Dean said he’d leave a couple boxes of eggs for him in a cooler by the front door.

When he got to the kitchen, he was disappointed to find that the granola hadn’t been touched. Castiel apparently wasn’t joking about waking up late. Dean assembled his prosciutto on rye, poured a glass of orange juice, and went out to the deck to eat. He was nearly done with his sandwich when the French door opened hesitantly and Castiel peeked out, squinting and holding his hand up to the light.

“Morning, sunshine. Nice bedhead.”

“At least it’s still morning,” Castiel croaked, with a degree of pride that Dean found endearing. He reached up to pat down his hair, and Dean’s eyes darted to where his T-shirt rode up, revealing the smooth, flat skin of his abdomen.

He looked away as soon as Castiel turned from the sun to him.

“Um, how’d you sleep?”

“Very well, actually. Your old bed’s really nice.” He closed the door behind him and lazily made his way to the railing. “Wow, this deck is huge.”

“Yeah, Henry added it when Dad was a kid. I think there was a worn-down back porch here before that, but it wasn’t an original either. Just goes to show how old this place is.”

Castiel rolled his neck and breathed in deep. “Smells nice. Lavender. Mint.”

Dean put down his plate and walked over. He leaned into the railing beside Castiel.

“That’s tarragon down there,” Dean said, starting with the end of the herb garden and moving left. “Sage, chervil, lemon balm, dill, rosemary, catnip for Crowley, oregano—”

“The bees love that one,” Castiel interrupted.

“Oregano? Oh, yeah. They go crazy for it.” Dean elbowed him. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“Of the bees?” Castiel rubbed his hand over his stubble. “No, of course not. I love bees.”

“Really?”

“Think of all they do for the world. How much the flowers give them willingly, and yet how they give even more back to them. How they feed us all without asking anything in return. We humans can learn a lot from bees.”

Dean grinned.

“What?”

“Do you just roll out of bed each day and start dishing out deep thoughts?”

Castiel tilted his head. “Was that deep? My brothers would’ve told me to stop talking nonsense and eat my cereal.”

“Well, I don’t want you to do that. It’s one of the reasons I like talking to you.”

Castiel’s cheeks dimpled. He gestured to the herb garden.

“Keep going.”

“Uh, I don’t know. You’re just really smart. I feel like I learn something new every time we talk. Or like, you get me to see things in new ways.”

He laughed. “That’s sweet. But what I meant was, keep going with the herbs.”

“Oh!” Dean turned away, glad for the excuse the plants provided. “That’s thyme, lavender, spearmint, parsley, chives, cilantro, and a laurel tree at the end there. There’s an empty plot for the basil, too. I usually transplant it from the greenhouse around this time of year. Probably do that this week.”

“I want to walk down there and smell all of it.” Castiel leaned over the railing. “Maybe I should have breakfast first.”

“I put the granola out for you. If you feel like eating that.”

“I saw it.” Castiel patted Dean’s shoulder. “Thank you. Is the coffeemaker easy to figure out?”

Dean picked up his plate and cup. “I’ll show you.”

In the kitchen, Dean started a pot of coffee while Castiel poured soy milk over his granola. He scooted his stool closer to the island after his first bite.

“Oh.” He stirred the bowl. “Oh wow. This doesn’t taste anything like the granola from a box.”

“Yeah?”

“This is outstanding. I think it’s the best granola I’ve ever had.”

“Come on.”

“No contest.” He reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth. “You could sell this, Dean. I’m not just saying that.”

“Glad you like it.” Dean set one of the mugs down beside the coffeemaker. “I better get back to work. If you see someone come up to the front door, it’s just the beekeeper picking up the eggs I left out there for him.”

“Eggs,” Castiel echoed. “Could you show me the ducks and chickens sometime? I heard them when we were outside.”

“Yeah.” Dean scratched his cheek. “Um, I was actually thinking of taking the day off tomorrow. Could show you around the farm. Then we could maybe go into town. Grab lunch or something.”

Castiel smiled. “That’d be nice.”

“We could get an early start,” Dean added. “Try to make the most of it.”

“That’s a gentle way of saying I need to get out of bed earlier, I get it.” He took another bite. “I’ll try to be ready by 10.”

“10, huh? Don’t strain yourself.”

“Ugh.” Castiel shuffled to the coffeemaker. “No teasing until I’ve had my first cup.”

He lifted the carafe, clinked his spoon against the sides of his mug, bent down to sniff the aroma. The midday sun streamed in through the window above the sink, glowing the olive skin of his neck and forearms. Dean only realized he was staring when Castiel turned to him and tilted his head.

“Dean?”

“Huh?”

“I’m not trying to get rid of you, but…I thought you had to get back to work?”

“Work, right.” Dean bumped into the side of the doorway as he turned to the hall. “Yeah, loads to do.”

“Have a good rest of your day,” Castiel called after him.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. “You— _you_ have a good day.” His elbow knocked against the door of the linen closet, and the clatter resonated up and down the hallway. “With your writing and—and all that stuff.”

The last he saw of Castiel before he turned the corner into the living room was a look of bewilderment and genuine concern. Dean was glad to have escaped before he had to see that bewildered concern turn into amusement. There were still small mercies in the world.

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The shadows were long in the fields when Dean called an end to the day. He covered the bales of pine straw with tarp and carried the weeds from the strawberry rows to the brush heap, then drove back through the gate and up the road home. He fiddled with the radio dial as he drove, blithely tapping past songs he liked just for the sake of discharging some of his nervous energy.

He’d made this same journey five, six, sometimes seven days a week for the last twelve years, yet had never felt the complicated jumble of emotions he was feeling now. There was apprehension and hope; shame and longing; fear and desire. Dean picked up his thermos and scaled the brick steps to the mudroom door, hoping the slow pace would quell his nerves.

It was different than it’d been with Lisa. With her, everything had been safe and familiar—almost as much near the end as at the beginning. He’d felt something genuine for her, though whatever that was had dissipated over the nine months they’d lived here together, until coming in from the cold and kissing her cheek at the kitchen sink finally felt like going through the motions. Even at the start, though, when his mental state in the wake of his father’s death had been the most fragile and he’d leaned on her the most heavily, he hadn’t doubted and yearned and needed as much as he did now.

It scared him.

Dean dried his hands on the towel above the mudroom sink, then patted a sleeping Crowley as he passed through the living room. There was a nip in the air, but it wouldn’t get cold enough overnight for a fire. He paused in the entryway to up the thermostat by a few degrees before ascending the staircase.

Upon reaching the second floor, he pivoted on the balls of his feet in the direction of his bathroom as he always did. He stopped in his tracks when he heard faint music floating down the hallway from Castiel’s room.

He was too exhausted to cringe at himself for already thinking of it as his room.

Dean made his way down the hall slowly, avoiding the spots in the hardwood where it would squeak and give away his presence. He heard a guitar melody, then a woman’s voice, mellifluous and haunting. Just as Dean reached the open bedroom door, Castiel’s singing joined hers.

“I’ll be your honey if you’ll be sweet,” he sang, his voice slightly higher and more round-mouthed than when he spoke. He was sitting back in the desk chair, facing away from the door, with his feet up on the end of the bed. He held a beat-up paperback volume in his left hand and a pen in his right; piles of books and documents were scattered all around him like unraked autumn leaves.

Dean leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms. Castiel hadn’t noticed him yet. Dean didn’t want to interrupt his focus.

He was beautiful when he was concentrating. The beam of Dean’s old desk lamp cast a cone of golden light over his messy hair, the tense cords of muscle in his neck, his shoulders in his midnight-blue sweater. When his pen wasn’t underlining a passage in the book he held, he tapped the cap end against his cheek in time to the music.

Castiel’s voice supplemented the lyrics again, and Dean’s breath paused in his chest to hear.

“You’ll be upstairs, and I’ll be there too.”

Dean was beginning to feel like a voyeur, so he cleared his throat softly. Castiel dropped his feet to the ground and looked over his shoulder.

“Dean! Hey—I didn’t hear you come in.”

Dean smiled and uncrossed his arms. “I like the song. Nice singing voice, by the way.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear that. I feel mortified.”

“You’ve clearly never heard my singing.” He took a few hesitant steps in. The window beside the bed was open to the twilight, and one of the shutters swung back and forth gently in the crisp, grassy breeze. “Aren’t you chilly?”

“Got my sweatpants and wool socks on,” he said, pointing to his toes.

“Ah.”

Dean shifted his weight from one leg to the other. They were just making small talk, but for some reason his brain was seizing up when he wracked it for what to say next.

“Did you just get done with work?”

“Uh, yeah. I wanted to finish earlier in case you were hungry, but things always take longer on a farm than you think they will.”

“I don’t want you to worry about me, Dean. I’ll eat whenever you eat.”

“I’m just a worrier.” Dean peered at the book in Castiel’s hand. “How about you? Writing going well?”

“No, it’s hit a snag.” He let the book fall to the ground and pocketed the pen. “My noodle’s cooked. I’ll come back to it later tonight.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Well, I stink, so I’m going to hop in the shower. Then I can start on dinner. You’ll feel better once you get some food in you. If—if you want.”

“Can I help you? I feel like such a bum, making you cook me dinner after you spent the entire day working. You did tell the whole world I sucked at rolling enchiladas, but there has to be something I can do.”

“I didn’t say _that_. I said there was, you know, room for improvement.”

Castiel chuckled. He leaned against the chairback, relaxed his neck, mouthed the lyrics to the next line while staring up at Dean.

_When I see you, I want to kiss you._

Dean laughed, then sniffed his armpit dramatically. “You don’t want to kiss me when I smell like this.”

A thin, pensive line appeared on Castiel’s forehead. His eyes drifted to Dean’s lips and rested there for a few seconds.

“I guess you better jump in the shower, then,” he murmured.

“Uh, yeah.” Dean gulped and took a step backwards, nearly tripping over a curl at the edge of the carpet. “I mean, yeah. Then—dinner.”

“Dinner,” Castiel agreed. He was still looking at Dean’s mouth.

Dean turned abruptly, closing the door behind him. He wasn’t sure why—it’d been open when he’d come in—but opening it again wasn’t an option now. He’d already made enough of a fool of himself.

Part of him still wanted to reach for the doorknob and walk back in.

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Castiel was already in the kitchen, standing beside the refrigerator with phone in hand, when Dean walked downstairs.

“Did you see how many comments you have on the picture from last night?”

“I took a peek at a few of them over breakfast.” Dean unhooked a large saucepan from the wall and put it under the cold faucet. “How many are there now?”

“A few hundred. Not bad for two nobodies.”

Dean snorted. “How’d you get so many followers, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Over time, I guess. Some of them came from my political blog, others from activist networks. All the people I met traveling, of course, along with people from college. And UMD’s a pretty big school. Lots of people from there.”

“Huh.” Dean lit the burner underneath the saucepan. “You know, I think a lot of your followers started following me, too.”

“Maybe they’re as intrigued by you as I am.” Castiel returned his phone to the pocket of his sweatpants. “What are you making?”

“Cacio e pepe with rainbow chard. Bucatini, parmesan, black pepper, salt. And chard and a little bit of garlic on top.”

“Sounds tasty.”

“Sorry it’s so simple. I have a more exciting dinner planned for us tomorrow. When I’ll have more time to cook, I mean.”

“Well, simple’s good. Maybe this way, I’ll actually be able to help. Should we film it?”

“Maybe. I don’t know if I’m confident enough to upload this recipe yet.” Dean pulled the salt tub and pepper mill from the spice drawer. “This isn’t the traditional way to do it. I don’t want to end up on a failblog.”

Castiel waved dismissively. “Every sacred cow gets put out to pasture one day.”

“I’ll think about it.” Dean smiled. “Actually, I do have a job for you. And don’t worry; you can’t mess it up.”

“Don’t jinx me.”

Dean retrieved the wedge of parmesan from the refrigerator and a small-bore grater from the cabinet. He set them on one of the island’s chopping boards.

“Grate about half of that. Don’t forget to wash your hands first.”

“I knew you’d give me the glamorous job,” Castiel said, as he rolled up the sleeves of his sweater.

“At least I’m not making you peel garlic.” Dean walked to the pantry, then back with a box of bucatini. “I always used to make Sam do that when we were younger.”

“You monster.”

“Well, he wasn’t meeting chicks later.” Dean thrust his hands under the water once Castiel finished. “It takes at least a day to get garlic out of your fingers.”

Castiel dried off with a dishcloth, studying the dusk through the window for a few seconds.

“Were you popular in high school? With girls, I mean?”

“Uh.” Dean turned off the tap. “I guess so. Not as much as some other guys who had more going for them, but yeah.”

“I see. I suppose that’s not surprising.”

“You know, I dated the captain of the cheerleading squad for a semester. I was pretty proud of that at the time.”

Castiel made a face as he handed Dean the dishcloth.

“What?”

“I’m guessing the two of you didn’t bond over the meaning of the green light at the end of _Gatsby_.”

“Uh. Come again?”

“Forget it. I’m being—I think I’m cranky because I’ve only had a bowl of granola today. And that’s not because I’m here, in case that’s what you’re thinking. I forget to eat while I’m working all the time.”

He turned around and began grating the block of parmesan. His movements were careful, even plodding, as if he didn’t want to finish anytime soon. Dean gathered that Castiel had mocked him, but what he didn’t understand was why he’d ask about the girls he’d dated in high school if he was going to get so agitated when Dean answered the question honestly.

“You, um—” Dean placed a frying pan on the stove. “How about you?”

“Me?” Castiel mumbled, without looking up.

“Yeah. Did you…go out with a lot of guys in high school?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay. Just asking.”

Castiel sighed and turned around. “Dean, I’m sorry. I’m just—”

“Cranky?” Dean smirked. “Don’t worry, I get cranky when I’m hungry too.”

“Yeah. The truth is, I didn’t go out with any guys in high school. I wasn’t out in high school. I didn’t even know of any out gay or bi boys.”

“In the entire school?”

“It was a small school. Only a few hundred students. And very big on conformity.”

“Huh. That’s high school, I guess.” Dean pushed himself away from the counter. “I’m going to go pick some chard. You can come with me if you want.”

“Keep you company?”

“Sure. I mean, you haven’t seen me all day.”

Castiel laughed and followed Dean through to the greenhouse. “Don’t you mean _you_ haven’t seen _me_ all day?”

“Oh, is that what I mean?” Dean held the door for him, pointed to a cluster of closed-toe rubber sandals at the base of the steps. “Just choose any pair. There might be some splashing when we wash the chard.”

Dean led the way to the bed of green and rainbow chard on the western edge of the greenhouse. For a while, the only sounds were the ambient hum of the greenhouse’s heaters and the crisp snapping of chard stems.

“So, back in high school. Did you, like, know you were gay? Even back then?”

Castiel shrugged as if this were the first time he’d contemplated the question. “I suppose. I certainly felt like I was different. The irony is that other kids figured it out before I did, gauging by the playground insults I’d been hearing for years before finally starting to wonder whether they were true.”

“But you didn’t, like…know right away?”

“Right away?”

“Yeah, like…if we’re all born liking what we like, then don’t you just know?”

“Well, that’s complicated. What we think of as fixed, objective categories of sexuality are really the product of 19th-century psychology and, before that, the overhang of Abrahamic attitudes. And we do know that some aspects of sexual orientation are culturally bounded. Socially constructed, to use one of academia’s old saws.”

“Wow.” Dean reached down for another leaf of chard. “Talk nerdy to me, Cass.”

“What I’m saying is—I had a sense that something was off, but I didn’t know what. And I didn’t know what to call it.”

“You didn’t know what ‘gay’ was?”

“Of course I’d heard the term. I just didn’t match it up with what I was feeling. Not until senior year, I think. Maybe that’s how long it took me to begin to understand myself. And accept myself.”

Dean nodded slowly. “How were you sure, though?”

“How were you sure you liked girls? It’s the physiological response, mainly. Though not just that.”

“Huh.”

“Why do you ask?” Castiel said. He was looking at Dean in their reflection on the greenhouse walls.

“I don’t know. Just curious.” Dean started walking to the sink. “This is all the chard we need.”

He felt Castiel’s eyes on him as he stooped over the basin, rinsing the curled, bumpy leaves clean. There was more he wanted to ask, but he was afraid he was already coming off like a bull in a china shop. It was probably best to wait until they were eating. He was smaller than Dean, but cranky Castiel was weirdly intimidating.

“You know what?” Dean said, once they were back in the kitchen and he’d finished chopping the chard. “Let’s do it. Let’s film the recipe.”

“Oh yeah?” Castiel reached for his phone. “I was hoping you’d say that. You’re the one who said confidence is one of the three pillars of cooking.”

“Hopefully not overconfidence.” Dean dumped the pepper over the parmesan. “Are you already filming?”

Castiel grinned and nodded.

“Uh, hey guys.” Dean waved to the camera. “I hope you’re in the mood for cheesy pasta, because that’s what’s on the menu tonight.”

“Dean, who’s your sexy cameraman?”

“Wait, there’s a sexy one coming? I better ditch the apron.”

“Or ditch everything else.”

Dean blushed. “Er—I’m sure most of you recognize that voice. Cass is here, helping me with the cooking and filming.”

Castiel swiveled the camera to himself, winked, and turned it back on Dean.

“Yeah, so we’re making cacio e pepe,” Dean began. “With rainbow chard. Now, I know that right away, I’m enraging any purists out there. But I started making it this way when Sam asked for more green stuff in his cheesy pasta, and now it’s hard for me to imagine it any way else.”

“Dean, who grated the cheese for you?”

“We’re not at that part yet, handsome. I’m still explaining the ingredients we need. Oh—”

Dean slid the chard into the saucepan with olive oil and garlic, which sizzled at the contact.

“What’s that?” Castiel said, angling the phone above the stove.

“That’s our rainbow chard. I removed the stems and chopped it roughly. Now it’s going to sauté for about five minutes, just until it’s wilted.”

“Interesting, interesting.” Castiel pointed the camera to the mixing bowl that was piled high with cheese. “And what’s this?”

“It’s the parmesan you grated so perfectly,” Dean answered, rolling his eyes. “None of the powdered stuff, guys. You want an actual block of parmesan, and you want to grate about a cup of it with the small side of your grater. Or use a blender or food processor. Pecorino romano or Grana Padano are fine, too. The main thing is quality.”

Dean continued narrating the recipe, emphasizing the importance of creating a paste of cheese, pepper, and cold water with some jabs of his immersion blender before using the time while the pasta cooked to go over some of the dish’s common pitfalls. Castiel was adept at playing the part of the disaster home cook who needed Dean’s steady hand to guide him. Dean quipped that that wasn’t much of a stretch for him.

“I’m editing that part out,” Castiel groused, as Dean drained the pasta.

“You’ll be my editor too?” Dean grinned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me.”

Castiel turned the camera back to himself. “He thinks he’s funny.”

“I think I’m adorable.”

“Mhm. What’s happening now?”

“Now, we just add the pasta to this large bowl, add the cheese paste on top of it, a little bit of pasta cooking water—start small, you can add more if you need it—and stir.” Dean started whipping the pasta with his largest serving fork. “Really stir. Stir like there’s a starving graduate student staring at you, licking his lips.”

“How do you know I’m looking at the pasta?”

Dean laughed. “We’ve got jokes, folks. You’re not going to get that from Ina Garten.”

He plated up the pasta and scattered half of the wilted chard on each serving. Castiel grabbed two forks from the drawer.

“And sprinkle a little bit more of the grated parmesan on top. Done.”

Castiel returned his phone to his pocket; they carried their plates to the dining room, sitting across from each other at the head of the table. They ate for a while with Crowley walking back and forth between their legs. Judging by how little he spoke, Castiel was enjoying the meal.

“I like this, Dean. You know what it’s like? It’s like a hug on a plate.”

“I used to make it more when Sam lived here. It’s his version of boxed mac and cheese.”

Castiel brought his napkin to his face. “I hope he knows how lucky he is. To have a brother like you.”

“I don’t know. I’m not a perfect brother by any means. Things weren’t always smooth sailing between us.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows.

“We used to lie to each other a lot. And I think I embarrassed him in high school. Ditching chicks, just acting stupid in general. Then I dropped out, obviously.”

Dean thought Castiel was about to say something, but instead he looked down at his plate and scraped together his last few bites.

“Speaking of high school,” Dean said. “I was thinking over what we talked about before.”

“What about?”

“After you decided you were gay—figured out you were, I mean. Were you always sure from then on?”

“More or less.”

“You never questioned things? Like whether….”

“What?”

Dean twirled his pasta. “Never mind.”

“It took me quite a journey to figure it out in the first place. And come to terms with it. I don’t think—please don’t take this the wrong way.”

“No, it’s fine. You’re educating me.”

“I don’t think straight people ever have to go through the same thing. Questioning why they feel the way they do. Whether it’s right or wrong to have the feelings they have. The loneliness, especially when you’re younger.”

“Loneliness?”

“Of course straight people feel lonely from time to time. It’s not the same thing. I mean existentially. The entire world is structured around heterosexuality and gender expectations. Nearly every book, film, television show, video game; especially when we were younger. Your own family. Nearly everyone you ever meet. All different from you in this elemental way that marks you as the stranger.” Castiel sighed. “I’m becoming maudlin. And probably making you feel uncomfortable.”

Dean shook his head. “You’re not.”

“I suppose my point is that, once you’ve gone through all that, there are certain truths about the world, about yourself, that get seared into you. When society exists to habituate you into straightness, and you reject that, it’s entirely different from being part of the default category. So, no. No questioning.”

Dean nodded. Castiel sat back in his chair and regarded him, tilting his head almost imperceptibly.

“What’s on your mind, Dean?”

“I…I don’t know. I guess I’m just wondering what it’s like.”

“What?”

“Being—I don’t know. Different. Just because of who you’re into.”

Castiel looked at him strangely.

“It just sounds like it’s hard. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Ah. Well, don’t worry about me, Dean. The hardest thing in my life at the present moment is translating French NGO documents in a timely manner. I really should have thought twice about using non-English-speaking case studies.”

He stood up with his plate, seeming to hesitate before he continued.

“There’s…nothing else?”

Dean swallowed. He realized that his heart was racing. He had no idea when that had started.

“Nope.” He looked down at the hem of Castiel’s sweater, where his T-shirt from earlier that day peeked out. “Nothing else.”

“Then...thank you for dinner.” Castiel walked through to the kitchen, patting Dean’s shoulder as he passed. “I’ll edit the video and send it to you. I think your viewers will love our act.”

Dean twisted in his chair. Castiel was finding space in the dishwasher for the saucepan, his back to the dining room.

“Thanks, Cass.”

Dean wasn’t sure how much of it was an act anymore. It had started out that way—a ploy to get more followers—but that certainty was falling away just like all the others since his father’s death. The only sure thing he felt in that moment was the drumbeat of his heart against the chairback as he watched Castiel at the kitchen sink, wanting to cross the distance between them without knowing how.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Cacio e Pepe with Garlicky Rainbow Chard

_Fair warning: it could take you a few tries to master this dish. I happen to think a little trial and error is worth it when the reward is a meal as simple, quick, and delicious as this one, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t frustrated me in the past. That being said, this is the way I’ve found that’s the most foolproof._

_You’ll notice I called this recipe simple. And it is: the traditional preparation involves only three ingredients—pasta, hard cheese, and black pepper—while the version I like to make here at home adds three more on top—olive oil, garlic, and chard. But sometimes the simplest things can be the hardest to figure out. You can’t hide behind the ingredients, so use the best quality you can get your hands on._

_If you’re a cacio e pepe purist and can’t handle the chard in this recipe, just put it in a bowl on the side and serve it separately. Washing more dishes could be your way of having fun. I’m not judging._

Cook time: 30 minutes

Serves 2

1 cup grated parmesan*

2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper

8 ounces dried tonnarelli, bucatini or spaghetti

1 small bunch rainbow chard, washed, stems removed, chopped (about 4 cups)

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

1 teaspoon minced garlic (about 1-2 cloves)

Salt

Dump your grated cheese into the largest mixing bowl you have, then add the pepper on top. Spoon a few tablespoons of cold water (use ice water if your tap water isn’t very cold) over it and begin blending with your immersion blender. Keep blending and adding cold water until you have a uniform paste that’s something close to the consistency of refrigerated peanut butter. It should still be stiff, but shouldn’t look like rubble. Spoon out onto a plate; you’ll reuse this mixing bowl later.

Fill a large saucepan halfway with water (about 2 quarts) and add 2 teaspoons of salt. Bring that to a boil. This saucepan should be wide enough for your long pasta to fit lying down in it (or just about; a little bit of coaxing is fine).

In a large frying pan, heat the olive oil and garlic on medium until the garlic begins to sizzle, then add the chard. Sauté until the chard is fully wilted and there isn’t excess water in the pan, about five minutes. Sprinkle with a pinch of salt. Remove from heat.

Add the pasta to the large saucepan and cook until al dente—you want to start checking for doneness a couple minutes before the package directions say. However, you don’t want super al dente pasta in this recipe. Undercooked pasta could absorb too much of the cooking liquid later on, which could throw off our sauce. We want a normal al dente here.

When your pasta is done, use tongs or a pasta spoon to convey the noodles to the mixing bowl. It’s okay if some of the pasta water comes along; we’ll be adding more of it later anyway. DO NOT GET RID OF THE PASTA WATER. If you want to drain the pasta through a colander, that’s fine, but reserve about a cup of pasta water before that. Now, add the cheese paste from earlier on top and about ¼ cup of pasta water. Grab a large fork or a pair of chopsticks—you want something that can get between the noodles—and stir vigorously. I’m not kidding. You’re going to want to stir this pasta really quickly and for a fairly long time. The extended stirring is what creates the creamy, uniform sauce that you want from this. Add more pasta water as you go, but be careful not to dump in a huge amount at once. If your arm gets tired…well, hopefully you have a PhD student with nothing to do nearby. Hand it off to him for a couple minutes.

Once you have a thick, creamy sauce that clings to the noodles, plate the pasta and top with the chard. Sprinkle with a little more grated parmesan and serve.

*The traditional cheese used in cacio e pepe is pecorino romano, but I couldn’t find a high-quality vegetarian block of this anywhere. Parmesan is just easier to find at a good quality and often the only option you’ll have in many places when it comes to a hard cheese that doesn’t use animal rennet. That normally wouldn’t faze me, but I have a vegetarian staying with me right now. Last thing…please buy a block of good parmesan. This recipe won’t be good with whatever that powdered stuff is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Castiel is listening to is [Give You My Lovin by Mazzy Star](https://youtu.be/nnFnjUl94b8).


	9. Cauliflower Gratin and Farro Pilaf with Blistered Asparagus

_How’s it going?_ _😏_

Dean leaned the container of wolf urine against the fencepost and started typing. Of course Sam couldn’t wait much more than a day before sticking his nose in. Dean was surprised that he’d lasted as long as he had.

_Great._

_What’s that dumb face for?_

_That’s your face when you look at Cass._

_Or his face when he looks at you, actually._

_Your face is more this one_ _😍_

_Shut up._

_Come on, I watched your latest video._

_I’ve seen subtler flirting when it’s last call at a gay bar._

_……_

_Why’ve you been at a gay bar at last call? Something to tell me?_

_Just supporting a friend who came out a while back._

_Client’s here. Gotta go._

Dean sighed deeply and resumed spraying the wolf urine around the perimeter of the fields. Fending off Sam’s prying annoyed him at times, but he’d be doing it whether Castiel were around or not. In the year since Lisa, Sam had brought up in ways great and small how weird it was for him to see Dean single and how lonely Dean seemed every time he visited. At least now he had a different drum to beat.

An hour later, Dean stripped down in the mudroom and threw his clothes into the washing machine. It wasn’t often that he used the downstairs shower, but the breeze had blown back more urine than usual onto his skin and clothing. He wanted to avoid bumping into Castiel while smelling like what could be charitably described as rotting meat crossed with diesel and stale weed.

He only spent five minutes under the water, scrubbing soap over his skin and rubbing shampoo through his hair as diligently as he could in that time. It was already 10, and he didn’t want to be the one delaying their trip into town after ribbing Castiel’s schedule.

Once he was done drying off, he wrapped the towel around his waist and picked up his watch, phone, and keys. He walked through to the living room, but stopped in his tracks between the fireplace and coffee table when he saw Castiel sitting on the couch, petting Crowley.

“Dean?” Castiel’s eyes roved down his torso. “What’s—”

“Sorry,” Dean muttered. “I had to take a shower downstairs.”

“Hey, don’t apologize.”

Dean shifted on his feet, clutching his towel closed with his free hand.

“No, I mean—it’s your house. That’s why you shouldn’t apologize.”

“This’ll probably sound ridiculous to you, but it’s because I got wolf pee on myself. So I had to…wash it off.”

“Wolf pee?” Castiel made a face. “Okay.”

“You’ll get to smell it later. When we drive down to the farm. I just didn’t want you to smell it on me.” Dean hurried to the hall. “I’m—I’m going to get dressed.”

“Okay,” Castiel repeated. His eyes followed Dean to the doorway.

Dean tried on a few different outfits in his closet mirror, dismissing in turn a white denim shirt for being too flamboyant, a blue flannel shirt for being too easy, and a black dress shirt for being too formal. Finally, he settled on a shirt in green plaid with yellow lines. He rolled up the sleeves, rolled them down again, smiled in the mirror through his nerves.

Castiel was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase, checking something on his phone.

“You see this?” Castiel waved the screen at him. “Your video from last night already has the second-most views on your channel.”

“Wait, really?”

Castiel passed him his phone. “That’s a nice top. Brings out your eyes.”

“Why thank you. I like yours, too.” Dean leaned against the last step’s baluster and scrolled through the comments. “I didn’t have time to check the blog this morning. Wanted to get a few hours of work in before we had to go.”

“I thought you said you had the day off,” Castiel said, taking his phone back.

“That’s a relative term when you’re a farmer. I’m all yours now, though.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Can we see the ducks first?”

Dean agreed to that, but it was Castiel who led the way out of the house, down the deck, and out to the middle of the backyard, before turning around with his hands on his hips sheepishly.

“Right behind you.” Dean pointed to the bird enclosure along the greenhouse’s west wall.

“Hey!” He took out his phone and began snapping pictures. “These ducks are so colorful. Iridescent.”

“They’re Cayugas.” Dean leaned against the fence. “What color did you think they’d be?”

“White, I guess. Like the ones in insurance commercials.”

“Commercials,” Dean laughed. “Yeah, I guess that’s the only place you’d see farm animals in your neck of the woods.”

“And that’s a chicken?”

“Yeah, it’s a Dominique hen. All our chickens are. The rest are probably resting in the coop somewhere.”

“It looks like it’s wearing stripes.”

“They all look that way. Did you know it’s the oldest breed of chicken in the US? Came over with the Pilgrims. It started disappearing a while back, so Henry started a flock when my dad was younger to help preserve them.”

“The man really liked his heirlooms.”

“Yeah, he did. Anything old and American got added to the collection.” Dean played with the latch on the chicken run’s door. “You want to go in? They’re pretty friendly.”

“Um.” Castiel tilted his head. “I don’t know. I don’t like the way that one over there’s looking at me.”

“Which one?”

“The one that’s looking at me funny.”

Dean groaned. “City boy. Come on, then.”

He motioned Castiel along to the vegetable garden and held the gate open for him. Castiel lagged behind on the damp ground, faltering at times where his shoes sank into the clay loam.

“How many birds do you have?” he asked, once he noticed Dean was waiting for him.

“Four ducks and six hens,” Dean said. “Used to be more, but I stopped replacing them.”

Castiel joined Dean on the inside of the fence, and Dean latched the gate behind them.

“Why?”

“Oh, just because I can’t eat all the eggs by myself. Not without Sam and Dad, or even Lisa.”

“Lisa?”

“My—” Dean looked down at the grass. “My ex-girlfriend. She lived with me for a while. About a year, year and a half ago.”

“Ah.”

“It’s extra work, too,” Dean added. “Gathering eggs every day, cleaning the coop every week. And I already have more to do down on the farm than I can handle.”

“Well, I did say I could help you while I’m here.” Castiel gestured back to the chicken run. “I could gather the eggs. It can’t be too hard.”

“Hang on. Weren’t you too scared just now to even walk in there?”

“I’ll face my fears.” He patted Dean’s arm. “For you.”

Dean chuckled. “Okay, Cass. I hang the egg basket by the mudroom door. You should probably try to do it first thing after you wake up. Nothing good comes of letting eggs sit out during the day. Leave them by the sink and I’ll wash them when I come back for lunch.”

“I’m happy to help.” Castiel turned to the garden. “Is this the next thing you’re going to show me?”

“Yeah. This is our vegetable patch.”

“Is it just a patch? It’s enormous.”

“It’s only an acre and a half. The side we’re standing on is food for the house. Not much to speak of now, but you should see these rows in the summer.”

“What do you plant?”

“A little of everything. Plenty of tomatoes, peppers, beans. Always a row of corn, because it just ain’t summer without corn on the cob.”

Castiel smiled. “‘Ain’t.’”

“Isn’t.”

“No, I’m not correcting you. I just found it charming. Country boy.”

“Oh, that’s how it is?” Dean pulled at Castiel’s elbow. “Come on, we’re walking to the other end.”

A little before the halfway point of the garden, the vegetable stakes and trellises gave way to rows of incipient green shoots. Castiel bent down to read one of the plant tags.

“ _Hemerocallis_ ,” he enunciated.

“Daylilies,” Dean said. “Everything from here on is edible flowers. I’m growing them to supply to restaurants in town.”

“Berries and flowers.” Castiel straightened up and grinned.

“Younger me would’ve said that was pretty gay.” Dean fidgeted. “I stopped saying things like that a few years back.”

“Good. Although it’s not entirely wrong. I like flowers, for instance.”

“That a hint?”

“No,” Castiel said, though the twinkle in his eyes suggested otherwise. “If anything, I should be the one getting you flowers. For letting me stay with you.”

“You know, no one’s ever given me flowers.” Dean looked down at the little nubs of the daylilies. “It’s the other way around with straight people.”

“Well, I can’t stand for that.” Castiel started down the next row. “You’re too much of a catch to have never even gotten a bouquet.”

“Where are you going?”

“Aren’t we going this way?”

“No.” Dean pointed to one of the gates at the back end of the garden. “That’s the way out.”

“How long did it take you to build a fence this high?” Castiel said, once he’d rejoined Dean at the gate. “Or was it here before you moved in?”

“No, my Dad and I built it nine, ten years ago.” Dean beckoned Castiel down the slope. “We tore down the shorter fence because deer kept jumping over it and eating everything. They’re such a nuisance. Anyway, you need about eight vertical feet of fence to keep deer out.”

“Eight feet?”

“Yeah, they can really jump. Unfortunately, it’s not really practical to put up an eight-foot fence around all the berries, so I have to use other methods. Which is why, um—wolf urine.”

“Ah.”

Dean felt the crunch of pebbles under his feet; they’d reached the edge of the farm’s water retention system.

“This is one of the rain gardens,” Dean said. “Along with the catchment pools, they’re how we gather up floodwater, agricultural runoff, stuff like that. You can see one of the catchments through the trees over there. Not too full right now, but after the first big spring rain—oh boy.”

“‘Rain garden.’ That’s a pretty term.”

“Yeah, they’re great. They help combat pollution, erosion; plus, you can grow all sorts of water-loving plants. Red mulberry, Jerusalem artichoke—what?”

Castiel was beaming at him. Dean thought he’d said something inadvertently amusing.

“I just love the passion you have. I can feel the connection you have to this place.”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just…my family, you know?”

“I know.”

“And I feel like it’s on me to make them proud. Or at least not let them down.”

Castiel squeezed his shoulder. “You’re doing great, Dean. You really are.”

“Let’s, uh—” Dean motioned to the other end of the yard, past the gate and road. “Let’s go that way next.”

They walked along the line of reservoirs and rain gardens; Dean pointed out the catchment pool where he’d tumbled in and taken Sam with him.

“How old were you guys?”

“Oh, that was just a couple years ago. He moved back home for the summer to help on the farm before starting the job he has now.”

Castiel bumped his arm into Dean’s. “Never too old for horseplay, I guess.”

“We’re a lot more laid-back now. We used to do this whole—this whole pranking thing. He’d put superglue on my chair; I’d stick itching powder in his boxers. Dad thought it was hilarious.”

“Really? It wasn’t an infringement on ‘military discipline?’”

“Nah, Dad was weird. Super strict about some things, looked the other way on others. I think he thought we needed to get our energy out somehow. And he could only put us to work on the farm for part of the year.” Dean nodded in front of them. “That’s the garage up there. Let’s go grab the truck; I’ll take you down to the berries.”

Castiel pointed. “Wait, what’s that?”

“That?” Dean scratched his head. “It’s just the old horse barn. I use it for storage. Farm machinery, bales of straw, that kind of thing.”

“Ah.”

“I can show it to you if you really want. It’s not that interesting.”

“No, no. I was just wondering.”

At the driveway in front of the garage, Dean jumped up into the truck, then leaned over to unlock the passenger side. After a false start, Castiel tumbled in and closed the door behind him.

“You alright?” Dean teased. “I can come around and lift you up next time.”

“I slipped,” Castiel said sullenly. He buckled his seat belt.

“Sure.” Dean cranked the wheel; they rambled along the gravel road between the house and garage. “It’s only a quarter mile to the top of the fields, but I figured we’d drive along the ridge for a while so I could show you all the different berries.”

“I’d like that. The pictures you post of the view are breathtaking.”

Just past the gate, Dean slowed down to point at a cluster of buildings in the distance.

“That’s the worker housing,” he said. “There’s a separate road that connects those buildings to the highway, about a mile further up from here.”

“Where your friend lived.” Castiel stared out his window. “Gus.”

“Yeah.”

Dean didn’t know what else to say, so he let his foot off the brake pedal. They continued on.

“Do you treat them well, Dean?” Castiel turned to him. “I mean, I’m sure you do. There’s just so much exploitation of farmworkers. Especially immigrants.”

“I do my best. I pay by the hour, not piece rate like a lot of other owners. And I offer a few bucks more than minimum wage.”

Castiel seemed to digest this.

“Is it a living wage?”

“I think so. I hope so. I mean, cost of living’s a lot cheaper here than in DC.”

Castiel nodded. He looked out the window again, down at the housing.

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to hire so many pickers,” Dean said. “But with most of the plants in terraces, I can’t use automated harvesters. And besides, those aren’t really suited to heirloom berries.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you disappointed in me?” Dean slowed the truck as they reached the strawberry fields. “Told you I wasn’t perfect.”

“No, Dean. I’m not so naïve as to think that any of us would be able to eat without the labor of immigrants. I just—”

“Yeah?”

“I just feel weird. You know, being in a truck cab with the owner, rather than thrusting a protest sign in his face. I kind of feel like a turncoat.”

Dean snorted. “Well, I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“I’m happy you pay more than the minimum wage, at least. Virginia’s one of the states without a higher minimum than the federal one. It’s a travesty. No one can live on that, especially not a family.”

“Yeah. Hey, I’d love to do more. But it’s not like I’m a millionaire myself.”

“Ah. Well….” Castiel tilted his head. “Are those the strawberries in front of us?”

They got out of the car; Dean led the way down to the first strawberry bed.

“Ugh. Is that—?”

“Yeah. Wolf pee.” Dean grinned. “Sorry. I had to reapply it today because it rained over the weekend.”

“This must be what evil smells like.”

“I damn well hope so. Then the deer will know to stay away.”

Castiel squatted down, still holding his nose closed. His eyes followed the bees as they hovered and dipped over the strawberry flowers.

“Probably won’t have any for a couple weeks,” Dean said. “June, though—June’s strawberry season.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe if you want to come back, you know. In early June. You’ll have more strawberries than you can eat.”

“Is that a bribe?” Castiel walked up the row, squatted down again. “Are you already planning our next week together?”

“I don’t know. I guess you’re not too much of a pain to have around.”

“Hey, that’s more than most of my family can say about me. I’ll take it.”

Before Dean could respond to that, Castiel started walking down the terraces, peering around at the rows near and distant.

“Are these all strawberries?”

“Oh, yeah. For acres and acres. We need to drive to get to the other berries.”

“Plus, it’s cooler in the truck.” Castiel grabbed the front of his blue floral shirt and fanned himself.

“Alright, come on.” Dean started walking back to the truck. “Don’t want you getting all sweaty before we even drive to town.”

They drove along the ridge-road. Dean announced the blueberries, the raspberries; he pointed to the serviceberries at the top of the hollow, where the drainage was best.

“Way, way down there,” Dean said, as they rolled along. “You can’t see them, but there’re dewberries and golden currants closer to the valley floor. They like more shade.”

“I don’t know what either of those are.”

“Come back in a couple months and you can try them.”

“Ah. Now we’re planning even more visits.”

“Not _planning_.” Dean wet his lips. “I’m just saying you’re welcome to come over. For the berries.”

“The berries,” Castiel agreed, with a sidelong glance.

“Yeah. Oh, I almost forgot.”

Dean leaned across the center of the front seat. Castiel froze.

“Sorry. I just wanted to point out the other side of the hollow. See that entire hillside?”

Castiel finally turned to match Dean’s eyeline. “Yes.”

“That’s where the huckleberries grow.”

“It just looks like woods from here.”

“It is. Huckleberries aren’t domesticated. They grow in the underbrush of forests and only show up for a few weeks in the summer.”

“They’re wild? I didn’t know that.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll tell you something else you don’t know.”

Castiel turned back to him. Dean didn’t really have a good reason to continue leaning into his personal space, but he didn’t hear him complaining.

“They’re my favorite berry.”

Castiel laughed.

“What?”

“It’s ironic. That your favorite berry is the only one you can’t grow.” Castiel glanced at Dean’s lips. “Or maybe not. We always want what we can’t have.”

Dean held his gaze. “Well, I _can_ have them. Just takes a little more effort.”

Castiel swallowed. After a moment, he looked away.

“You should probably watch the road. We’re not going very fast, but….”

“Yeah.” Dean sat up. “Yeah. A five-mile-per-hour crash would be a pretty embarrassing way to go out.”

Dean made a three-point turn where the road widened. Back at the garage, he showed Castiel how to adequately clean off his shoes before they traded the truck for the Impala. Castiel was quieter than usual through it all, using enough words to fend off any obvious awkwardness between them but no more.

“You okay?” Dean said. He started the car.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just…not fully awake yet. It takes me a few hours to reach peak performance on days I have to get up early.”

“Maybe you’ll perk up after lunch. There’s this sandwich place I really like; I figured we could go there. I know the family who owns it.”

“Sounds nice,” Castiel said.

They glided beneath the red oaks. Dean pulled out onto the empty country road.

“That’s the old Moseley farm.” Dean pointed to the driveway across from his. “They sold a few years ago, though. I think a couple from DC bought it. They don’t live here fulltime. And then the next few houses on our side of the street—none of them have farms attached. That’s why my land extends back, then opens out into the valley.”

“Is this the kind of place where everyone knows everyone?”

“Sure feels that way sometimes. Winchester’s the largest city for a while in any direction, but it’s more like a small town in certain ways.”

Castiel nodded. “Providence Island was like that.”

“How many people?”

“About 2000 year-round. More in the summer.”

“Wow. That’s actually small. Way smaller than here.”

“Yes. What’s this place?”

“Fortuna Orchards,” Dean said. “Apples, like a lot of the operations in Frederick County.”

They continued down the slope into the city. Dean pointed out the produce market off the highway (“A lot of our fresh berries go there”), the livestock exchange building (“Never bought anything at the auction, but their diner’s good”), and the Museum of the Shenandoah Valley (“The gardens there are top notch”). Castiel followed along, nodding here and there to indicate his attentiveness.

“That’s Stonewall Jackson’s Headquarters up there,” Dean said, flicking his chin to the right.

“Hmm.”

“Yeah, Winchester had a lot of involvement in the Civil War.”

“I suppose that makes sense. It would’ve been right on the border between the Union and Confederacy.”

“Yeah.” Dean gestured to the right again as they rolled up to a stop sign. “That’s the city’s main library. Another historic building.”

“Look at that dome. Beautiful.”

“I remember Sammy used to always make me drive him there. Or pick him up from there. I’d joke that he could pack a sleeping bag in his backpack and save me the trip.”

Castiel laughed. “Didn’t he have to help on the farm, too?”

“Oh, sure. In theory. He always found some way to get out of it, though. Drove Dad nuts. He leaned on me to get him back in line, but….” Dean shrugged. “I failed at that, clearly. Sam got out of Dodge as soon as he could.”

“He grew up poor and transient; now he’s a Stanford-educated lawyer,” Castiel said. “You didn’t fail, Dean.”

“Yeah. I guess.” The light turned green, and Dean glanced at Castiel while waiting for the cars in front of them to start moving. “I just wish Dad were still alive to see that he moved back. Not back home, obviously, but close enough to visit.”

“Didn’t he visit when he was in college?”

“No. I mean, I drove out there a few times, but no. Dad told him that if he abandoned us to go to Stanford, he shouldn’t ever come back.”

Castiel was silent. When Dean looked over at him, he was shaking his head, his eyes shut.

“I know how it sounds. But Dad really did love him.”

“Families,” was all Castiel said.

Dean parked the Impala on the street and filled the meter. He pointed at the humble wood-and-stone cottage on the opposite corner.

“George Washington’s office. He lived here for a few years during the French and Indian War.”

“La guerre de la Conquête,” Castiel said, donning his sunglasses. “La guerre de Sept Ans.”

“Show-off.”

“Sorry. Translation’s becoming something of a reflex at this point.” He followed Dean through the crosswalk. “You know, most guys find my French sexy.”

Dean snorted. “‘Most guys?’”

“What?”

“Most gay guys, you mean.”

“Well, I never said they all _admit_ they find it sexy.”

“Wow.” Dean moistened his upper lip. “Someone’s full of himself.”

“And I’m still not hearing a denial.”

“Alright, Casanova.” Dean nudged Castiel’s cheek with the back of his hand, directing him to the façade of the museum on their right. “You’re here to check out the city, not me.”

“Casanova,” he laughed. “Good one.”

While Castiel was looking away, Dean reached down and discreetly pushed down his belt buckle, then stuck his hand in his pocket. Things were hard enough without Castiel looking down and seeing that he wasn’t completely wrong about the effect his flirting was having on him.

“So,” Castiel said. “Where’s this sandwich place?”

“Left,” Dean managed, before motioning to the start of the pedestrian mall. Unlike when they’d walked the streets of the nation’s capital, Castiel moved slowly, taking his time in front of the shopfronts and the flower planters, the coin-strewn fountains and the whitewashed church steeples.

“You guys really like red brick here,” he said, as they neared the end of the block.

“Yeah, it’s kind of a theme.” Dean pulled open the door of Harvelle’s. “After you.”

It was the lunch hour on a weekday, so most of the booths and tables were occupied. The air smelled of fryer grease and pickles. Dean felt his stomach rumble in response.

“This is, um, nice.” Castiel craned his neck to see around Dean. “I guess it’s an…Americana theme.”

“Not fancy enough for you, Frenchy?”

Castiel’s eyes widened. “No, I—”

“Just kidding.” Dean elbowed him. “Loosen up, buddy.”

“Right. Of course.” Castiel shoved him back. “Buddy.”

An awkward beat passed between them. Dean angled his head to draw Castiel’s gaze.

“You ready to order?”

“Uh, yeah. You go first.”

The only person in front of them had just finished ordering, so Dean stepped up to the counter.

“Hey, Ellen.” Dean splayed open his wallet in front of him. “I’ll have the Doc Holliday, onion rings, and a root beer.” He motioned with his thumb. “And whatever he’s having.”

“Um….” Castiel looked down from the menu. “Can I have the Johnny Appleseed?”

“Sure thing. Anything to drink for you?”

“Just a cup of water.” Castiel flipped Dean’s wallet shut with the back of his hand. “And I’ll get this.”

“Cass.”

“You’re making us dinner, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Here.” He produced two twenties from his pocket and slid them over the counter. “I don’t need any change.”

“Thanks,” Ellen said, raising her eyebrows at Dean. Dean shrugged, returned his wallet to his pocket, and followed Castiel out to the restaurant’s patio.

“Wow.” Castiel was staring up, hands on hips, at the branches of the eastern redbuds. “That’s a lot of pink. Almost puts the cherry trees in DC to shame.”

“They’re planted all around town. You know, the pink and green theme.”

“How pretty. Let’s sit there.” Castiel walked to one of the shaded tables, picking up and sniffing one of the redbud blossoms once he arrived.

“Did you know you can eat those?”

Castiel lifted the flower to his lips.

“Er—I think you’re supposed to wash them first.”

“Ah.” Castiel tossed it at Dean’s chest. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to actually eat it. I don’t put just anything in my mouth.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He sat across from Castiel and threw the flower back at him.

“You know, I’m wondering.”

“What’re you wondering, Dean?”

“All these—these innuendoes. Do you use them this much with everyone, or am I just special?”

“Well, I try to avoid them when I’m talking to professors.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Castiel tilted his head. “I told you, Dean. I just flirt to get people’s guards down.”

“So…you don’t do it more with me?”

“Maybe a little more. It’s surprisingly easy to make you blush. See? You’re doing it already.”

“No, I’m not.” Dean hurled another flower at Castiel. “Asshole.”

“It got your guard down at the beginning, didn’t it?” He dodged yet another flower from Dean’s side of the table. “Didn’t it?”

Dean turned to the sound of someone clearing their throat from the porch. Ellen was hesitating at the step down to the courtyard, tray of sandwiches in hand.

“Is it safe for me to interrupt?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Dean slapped his thighs. “Bring the grub over. I’ll behave.”

Ellen laid out their food and drinks, giving Dean a puzzled look as she turned back to the restaurant. Dean waited until she was gone before picking up his sandwich.

“What’s in yours?” he said, after they’d eaten for a while. “I’ve never tried that one.”

“Hummus, Swiss cheese, lettuce, sprouts, tomatoes, and avocado. Oh, and apples.”

“Apples?”

“Yeah. It’s called the Johnny Appleseed, after all.”

“Huh. Apples in a sandwich. You crazy vegetarians.”

Castiel shrugged. “It’s actually quite good. You should try it the next time you come here.”

“I don’t think so,” Dean chuckled.

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

Dean finished chewing. “Because it’s a slippery slope, you know? First I’m giving up meat; then, the next thing you know, I’ll be—” Dean waved his hand languidly at Castiel. “Wearing shirts with little flowers on them.”

“I think you’d look good in floral print.”

“And after that—” Dean brought the bottle of root beer to his lips. “Who knows what I’d try after that.”

Castiel watched him drink. He waited for him to put down the bottle before speaking.

“I don’t understand what any of that meant,” he said. “Did your father teach you that line of reasoning?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a guess, seeing as how you said he was pretty strict with you and Sam. It’s an old stereotype that eating healthy food and wearing stylish clothing make a man fussy. Sensitive. Effeminate.” Castiel nodded to Dean’s sandwich. “You know what I mean.”

“Not sure I do,” Dean said flatly.

“Fine,” Castiel sighed. He picked up his sandwich again. “Let’s just talk about something else.”

“Okay.” Dean held out his basket of onion rings, and Castiel accepted one. “Actually, you know how you mentioned the island you grew up on earlier?”

Castiel mumbled his assent as he chewed the onion ring.

“I was just wondering what it was like. Growing up on an island that small.”

“The island itself isn’t small at all. It’s probably larger than Winchester’s city limits. But most of it’s wilderness.”

“But population wise?”

“Population wise, it’s tiny. There’s an artists’ colony on the northeast coast; a couple hundred there, maybe. A lobster fishing village around the same size on the southern tip. And at the center of the island, the big city.”

“‘Big city?’”

“We say it ironically. It’s 1500 people or so. A couple schools, a general store, art galleries, a few restaurants, a bar. The population doubles in the summer. At least.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I was just thinking what it would be like to look out my window and see the ocean every day. Sounds beautiful.”

Castiel let out an amused breath and returned his attention to his sandwich.

“I guess since I grew up with it, I don’t see it as anything special. Though I do admit that the specific sort of wind you only get on an island will always feel like home to me. Even after all the years I’ve lived in DC.”

“You ever think about moving back there one day?”

“No,” Castiel replied. “No, I won’t be doing that.”

Something about the tone of his voice made Dean not want to press further. He waited for Castiel to bring them around to a new subject.

“Can I ask you something now?”

“Shoot.”

“Tell me a story about when you and Sam were younger. Growing up on the road.”

“You want to hear about diner food and what was on TV in our motel room?”

“I suppose I’m the same as you. I’m curious about the life I didn’t have. A new town every week; new sights, new people.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Let me think.”

“I’m ready for you to dispel my romantic ideas about a peripatetic upbringing.”

“Uh, right. Well, there was one year when Sam was really into magic. Card tricks, rabbits in hats—Dad wouldn’t let him get a real rabbit, obviously, so I won him a stuffed animal from a claw machine.”

“Aw.”

“Anyway, we were at this gas station in Wyoming when Sam decided to test his sleight of hand skills on someone that wasn’t one of us.”

“Uh-oh.”

“The guy in front of our dad had a Colt Single Action Army on his hip. Sam lifted it without either one of them noticing, but of course the dude checked his holster as he was walking out. He laughed it off, even gave Sam one of the snacks he’d bought, but Dad was pissed—with Sam for doing it, with me for not watching him. I think he was afraid of what might’ve happened if the gun accidentally went off and hurt one of us, but Sam was too young to understand that.” Dean ate the last bite of his sandwich and balled up the wax paper. “Sam stopped practicing magic tricks after that.”

“Oh, Dean.”

“What?”

“All these stories from your childhood. I just…I don’t know.”

Dean had seen the look on Castiel’s face countless times before—from diner waitresses, motel clerks, teachers, school counselors. It always made him grit his teeth.

“It’s fine, Cass. I don’t want your pity.”

“I wasn’t offering it.”

Dean wiped his napkin over his mouth. “What, then?”

“Empathy. Understanding, maybe. I’m actually a pretty good listener.”

“Especially when you’re trying to get into someone’s pants, I bet.”

He’d tried to say it as a joke, but Castiel didn’t crack a smile.

“Is that the only reason anyone’s ever listened to you? Or you to them?”

Dean looked down at the table, but he’d finished all his food. He met Castiel’s eyes again.

“Don’t you think you’re worth more than that? Much, much more?”

“Look, Cass. I didn’t mean it. I just get kind of defensive when I think people feel sorry for me.”

Castiel stretched his arms above his head and looked up at the boughs of the redbud. He grunted, and Dean heard his back crack.

“Ah,” Castiel moaned. “Oh.”

“Uh.” Dean shifted in his seat. “How’d we go from us arguing to you reenacting _When Harry Met Sally_?”

“Were we arguing?”

“I guess not. What’s a step below that? Friction?”

“‘Friction.’” Castiel’s tongue darted out for a split-second. “ _When Harry Met Sally_. And you complain about innuendoes.” He stood up and touched his toes. “I need to do some yoga when we get back.”

“So, is this how you deal with….” Dean hesitated before using the word again. “Friction? Change the subject?”

“Is there more you want to say on the topic?”

“Cass—” Dean snorted. “Man, I can’t have a serious conversation when you’re bending over like that.”

“Then let’s have an unserious conversation.”

Dean leaned to the side to look at Castiel below the table.

“Hello, Dean.”

“You’re reminding me of Lisa right now.”

“Your ex-girlfriend?” Castiel said, frowning.

“Yeah, she used to get up and stretch at random times like this. She’s a yoga instructor, so maybe it comes with the territory. You and her, I mean.”

“You could do with some yoga too. It might help you relax your muscles after working them all day. You looked pretty tight earlier. After your shower.”

Dean smirked and shook his head.

“There’s that smile. What’re you thinking about, Dean?”

“About how you’ll pass out from the blood pooling in your head pretty soon.”

Castiel unfurled his spine until he was upright again. “What else?”

“About why you really want me to do yoga with you.” Dean drank the last few drops of his root beer. “You’re not as sneaky as you think. You’ll be offering to give me a massage next.”

“Only a crazy person turns down a massage.” Castiel picked up his sandwich wrapper and empty cup. “Shall we go?”

They walked back out onto the pedestrian mall and continued north. Dean pointed out city hall, the Civil War museum, the location of the Saturday farmer’s market. They were nearly at the end of the mall when one of the storefronts caught Dean’s eye.

“Patisserie Garth?” Castiel said.

“Yeah, I met the owner last week. I’ve been meaning to pay him a visit. You want to go in?”

Castiel pulled open the door and motioned with his other hand. “Straight guys first. I’m upending the patriarchy.”

It was small and warm inside; the air smelled of cinnamon, sweet cream, and baked apples. Oldies played from the radio above the counter, but Dean didn’t see anyone behind it.

“Maybe he’s in the back somewhere?” Castiel suggested, as they approached the display case.

Dean opened his mouth to respond but stopped when he saw movement behind the pastries. Garth was bending over in front of a tall cart, pulling out the baking trays one by one. The only part of him that was visible was the seat of his pants, and it was rocking back and forth in time to the music.

Castiel cleared his throat.

“Oh!” Garth sprang up. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Dean, right? I was hoping you’d stop by.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. You really know your apple pies.” Garth turned to Castiel. “Are you—”

“I’m Castiel.” He nodded to Garth’s hips. “Nice moves earlier.”

“Garth. Well, I can’t resist The Temptations.” Garth squinted up at the ceiling. “Hang on, I think I just made an unintentional pun.”

“A baker _and_ a bard.” Castiel started flipping through the catalogue on the counter.

Dean chuckled. He craned his neck over Castiel’s shoulder to see the pictures in the book.

“Guys, I’m afraid I don’t have a whole lot left in the case. Most of it’s gone by lunchtime.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said. “I mostly just wanted to see the kind of place you’ve got here.”

“It’s nothing special, I know. I’m just happy that business is good. Moving to a new place is always….”

“A leap of faith,” Castiel supplied, without looking up from the cake pictures.

“Exactly. You did pique my interest when you said you were a berry farmer, though, Dean.”

Dean grinned. “Bakers love their berries.”

“I took a look at your website. I thought we could maybe work something out come berry season. I promote your farm on the tags for my baked goods, you sell me product at a good rate?”

“Hey, I can see why business is good,” Dean said. “I got in the door two minutes ago and you’re already hustling.”

“So, does that mean…?”

“Yeah, we can probably work something out. I’ll have Charlie email you.”

Castiel hummed his approval. At first, Dean thought that he was reacting to his and Garth’s conversation; then he saw the full-page photograph of a wedding cake, festooned with daylilies and crowned by two grooms, that Castiel was pointing to.

“Thank you for being inclusive,” Castiel said.

“Virginia is for lovers,” Garth said. “One reason my wife and I like it here. Oh, are you—are you two looking for a cake?”

Garth’s index finger vacillated between them. Dean stepped back from Castiel.

“Uh, no. No, we’re not. I mean, I’m sure it’s a very good cake and everything—”

“We aren’t a couple, is what he means.” Castiel shut the catalogue. “What else do you recommend?”

A few minutes later, they were retracing their steps back to the car, Castiel with a beige paper bag of baked goods in hand. Dean chewed his lip.

“Cass?”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you think—never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“Why does everyone think we’re gay?”

“I am gay.”

“Yeah, but I’m not.”

Castiel shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it everyone? It was just Garth. And I guess people online who don’t know us.”

“Sam,” Dean said.

“It’s a joke to Sam.” Castiel threw him a sidelong glance. “Isn’t it? That’s what you said.”

Dean looked down at the red brick. He wanted to bring up Charlie, Kevin, and Jo, but Castiel hadn’t been there for any of that.

“I thought it didn’t bother you,” Castiel said.

“It doesn’t.” They crossed to the Impala’s side of the street, and Dean fished his keys out of his pocket. “There’s nothing wrong with…being gay. I’m just not.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

Castiel stopped at the passenger door and turned to him. Dean couldn’t gauge his expression behind his sunglasses.

“I don’t know. Now I’m wondering if it’s me.”

“What?”

“Like, if I’m doing something that gives people that impression. Without knowing I’m doing it.” Dean rubbed his chin. “I mean, if you saw me walking down the street, and you didn’t know me, would you think—”

Castiel burst out laughing. He placed the beige bag on the Impala’s roof and shook his head.

“Thanks,” Dean muttered. “Yeah, keep laughing at me.”

“How would I know just from passing you on the street, Dean? Semaphore? A secret handshake?”

“How should I know how things work with you guys? That’s why I’m asking!”

Castiel composed himself, then reached out to rest his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean looked at him suspiciously but didn’t move away.

“I’m sorry for being dismissive. I guess I just find it cute that you’re so earnest about this when you get snarky and sarcastic about everything else at the drop of a hat.”

“I’m not ‘cute.’”

“Oh, right. You’re adorable.”

“Yeah.” Dean grinned in spite of himself. “Big difference.”

“I suppose the more important question is: why does it matter? You told me you didn’t care what people think of you.”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“So, what changed?”

Dean started fidgeting with his keyring. “I’m not sure.”

“But it bothers you.”

“No. No, it doesn’t bother me. Not exactly.” Dean slunk away, around the front of the Impala; he unlocked his door but didn’t open it. “I guess it just…confuses me. That’s probably the word for it.”

Dean got into the car and reached over to unlock Castiel’s side. Castiel placed the bag of pastries between them and buckled his seat belt.

“Do you—”

“Let’s just—”

“You go first,” Castiel said.

“I was going to say, let’s just forget about this. I’m not making any sense, I know. Maybe I’ll figure out what I mean later.”

“Well, whenever you want to talk, I’ll try to be more helpful. Like I said, I’m a good listener.”

Dean pulled out of the parking space. “When you’re not teasing me to death.”

“You tease me just as much.” Castiel reached for the radio’s auxiliary cable. “Can I play us some music?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Nice to have something to listen to on the drive.”

They’d talked about the trip last night. Dean’s plan was to take the scenic backroads—Lord Fairfax Highway, Route 658, Route 624—until they got to the river, then drive along the riverbank until reaching Highway 50, which would convey them home in time for dinner. They had the roads almost completely to themselves the entire way down; they were even able to park the Impala in the lane somewhere east of Ashby for pictures of the rolling pastures and, farther away, the clouded hills.

“And that’s—” Dean paused as the basswood and tupelo trees parted for the water. “That’s the Shenandoah River.”

“Oh.” Castiel rolled down his window. “It’s so pretty.”

“And if you look out this side—” Dean waited for Castiel to turn his attention to him. “Those’re the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.”

Castiel grinned and picked up his phone.

“What?”

“One sec.”

After a few seconds of suspense, the least surprising chords imaginable started playing from the car’s speakers.

“Of course.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Real original, Cass. Not like I haven’t heard this a million times.”

“Almost heaven,” Castiel sang. He lay his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “West Virginia.”

“We’re not in West Virginia,” Dean groaned. “I could take you there, though, if you turn this off.”

He didn’t, and they traveled along the river for miles before the song finally finished. Because the view was on the left, Castiel spent most of the drive leaned over into Dean’s side of the front seat, crinkling the beige paper bag underneath him. Castiel mentioned something about the landscape every once in a while, and Dean felt the heat of his breath on the side of his neck each time. It made him smile involuntarily and lose the thread of the conversation, and Castiel would have to repeat what he’d said to get them on track again.

After a stop at a grocery store Jo didn’t work at, they returned to the farm just before five. Castiel stretched as soon as he stepped out of the Impala.

“Sure you don’t want to join me for yoga?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Aw.”

“I have to start our dinner.” Dean sighed. “Puppy dog eyes, really?”

“Are they working?”

“Maybe later this week,” Dean said. “Maybe. But nothing too crazy. I don’t want you putting me in Downward Dog right away.”

“How’d you know I was going to start with that?”

Dean loaded Castiel’s arms up with groceries, then shut the trunk. He shook his head at him in mock disapproval.

“You trying to scare me off?”

“Jokes aside, Downward Dog could really help you.”

“Help me?” Dean scoffed. He opened the front door and turned on the kitchen light.

“Yeah. It’s great for working out some of the kinks you might have—”

“Whoa.” Dean put down his bags. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know, like kinks in your shoulders. Calves, hamstrings.”

“Oh.” Dean blushed. “That—that makes more sense.”

They looked at opposite corners of the kitchen. Dean was grateful that Castiel chose not to say anything.

“Do you need me to help with anything now?” Castiel started unbuttoning his shirt. “Or can I get changed and—”

“No!” Dean said, more loudly than he’d intended. He glanced at the column of exposed skin from Castiel’s neck to his navel. “I mean, yes.”

“Um…no or yes?”

“No, I don’t need help right now. It’s just—prep. Lots of prep.” Dean waved his hand erratically. “Go ahead, go do your yoga. We can start filming when you’re done.”

“Okay.” Castiel grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it from the tap. He frowned at Dean as he drank. “Everything alright? Your face is really red. Have you been drinking enough water?”

“I’ll have some in a minute.”

“Okay.” He filled his glass again. “Well…I should only be half an hour or so.”

Dean opened the refrigerator and stuck his head into it while he put away the groceries. He didn’t emerge until he heard Castiel ascending the staircase.

He’d exaggerated a little; the preparation was substantial in terms of ingredients, though not time. He decided to gather the herbs from the garden first and was heading out there when Castiel walked down the stairs wearing thin blue shorts and a canary yellow T-shirt.

“I thought I’d do it on the deck,” Castiel explained. “More room.”

“Yeah.” Dean looked down at his legs. “Sure, knock yourself out.”

Outside, Dean rounded the deck and plucked up the herbs he needed as efficiently as possible. When he returned to the house, he avoided turning his gaze anywhere near the side of the deck where Castiel had laid out his mat. His neck and chest felt hot and tight, and he realized that he’d forgotten to drink any water.

“Embarrassing,” Dean muttered, as he pulsed the bread in the food processor. Their exchange earlier was replaying in his mind. Dean still wasn’t sure whether Castiel, when he’d made the comment about water, had been toying with him or had been genuinely concerned.

Maybe that didn’t matter. The more important question, as Castiel liked to say, was why he cared so much.

It was close, but Dean had neatly laid out each part of his mise en place by the time Castiel returned from the deck. He grinned proudly when Castiel’s eyes widened.

“Look at all this! How’d you do it so fast?”

“I’m just that good.” Dean filled Castiel’s glass with water and handed it to him. “How was, uh, working out your kinks?”

“I feel ten times better. Especially after a long time in the car, like today.” Castiel tapped at his phone, then docked it in the tripod at the corner of the island. “Shall we start? I’m ready if you are.”

“Uh, sure. Hey guys. We’re, um, back already.”

“We are.”

“Thanks for all the support on the last video. I haven’t had a chance to look at all your questions, but I promise I’ll get to them soon.”

“It’s my fault,” Castiel said. “I’ve been keeping him busy.”

“That’s true. Feel free to send any complaints his way.” Dean picked up the plate of asparagus. “So, we’re making a couple different things tonight. As you can see, we’ve got some handsome-looking asparagus spears here. Depending on where you are in the world, it might be asparagus season where you are, too.”

“Doesn’t that make your pee smell funny?”

Dean blinked. “Yeah, Cass. It does. Thanks for, uh, pointing that out right at the top.”

“Sorry, everyone. My filter’s at the repair shop.”

Dean cleared his throat. “I think asparagus is a vegetable that shines when it’s prepared simply. We’re going to blister it under the broiler for just a short time, cover it with herbs and lemon juice, and serve it on top of a savory, creamy farro pilaf.”

“Farro,” Castiel echoed.

“This is farro.” Dean picked up a clear bowl and showed it to the camera. “It’s an ancient grain. Really nice and chewy, with a nutty flavor that’s pretty distinctive. It used to be hard to find outside of big cities here, but it’s more common now.”

“Oh, I’ve had that. In Italy. In soup, mostly.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yeah. But I’m sure you’ll make it even better.”

“No pressure.” Dean traded the farro for a bowl of chopped cauliflower. “And the other dish we’re making is cauliflower gratin. We’re kind of coming to the tail end of cold weather for the year, so it’s the last hurrah for all those rich, heavy, cheesy casseroles that’re so satisfying in the winter. You can feel a little bit better about this one, maybe, since it’s cauliflower and not potatoes or pasta.”

“Can I help?” Castiel walked to the sink. “I’m sure I can do something.”

“Well, wash up first. Then I can show you what we’re doing.”

Castiel started washing his hands obediently, and Dean turned back to the camera.

“I know it looks like a lot of ingredients when they’re all laid out like this, but none of what we’re about to do is hard. It’s a meal that’s simple, satisfying, and not too time-consuming. I think you guys will like this one.”

They did the herbed breadcrumbs first. Dean assigned the stirring to Castiel while he narrated the process and ingredients. After that came the cauliflower and the sharp cheddar Mornay sauce—Castiel sautéed the former while Dean attended to the latter, which required more talking to the camera. Dean poured his Mornay sauce into Castiel’s cauliflower, and then they both scattered the breadcrumbs over the top, making a thick crust. Once that was in the oven, Dean turned his attention to the farro pilaf.

“You’re going to have to be a good stirrer,” Dean said. “Can you handle this?”

“‘Can I handle this.’” Castiel waved with his wooden spoon. “Hit me.”

In went the oil and shallots, then the farro and stock. Castiel didn’t flag, which Dean praised him for.

“There’s a lot of stirring in this recipe,” Castiel said. “I’ll have to edit a lot of the footage out.”

“What about our jokes?”

“I’ll leave in the best ones. It’s better to keep people wanting more.” He tapped his spoon against the saucepan’s side. “Am I done yet?”

“Not too much longer. I thought you said you were going to be a good stirrer for me?”

“Yeah,” Castiel said glumly. “I did.”

The gratin came out golden brown and bubbly; while it was resting on the stovetop, the asparagus went under the broiler. Dean determined that the pilaf had finished and had Castiel fluff it with a fork as it cooled.

“You can dump the pistachios and feta in now,” Dean said.

Castiel ate one of the pistachios, then another one.

“Cass.”

“I’m testing them.” He inverted the bowls over the pilaf, then tossed everything together. “They passed.”

“And—” Dean pulled the baking sheet from the oven. “Yup, we’re golden. So, we toss about three quarters of our herb mixture in with the pilaf. Go ahead, Cass.”

“Is that three quarters?”

“Close enough. It doesn’t have to be exact. Once it’s mixed through, you’re going to lay the asparagus over the top. It helps if you have a wide serving dish like this one.”

Castiel pointed with his fork. “Lay it on me, handsome.”

“Alright,” Dean said, once he’d finished. “Now all that’s left is drizzling our lemon juice and sprinkling the rest of our herbs over the top.”

They set up a final presentation in the dining room, with the Dutch oven and the antique serving platter at the center and their place settings and bottle of wine at the wings.

“That’ll be a good thumbnail,” Castiel said.

“Yeah.” Dean sat down and let out a long breath. “Thanks again for clipping it all together.”

Castiel poured Dean’s wine. “Tired?”

“Sort of.” Dean opened his eyes again. “I always just breathe a sigh of relief when these videos are over.”

“You still get nervous when you do them,” Castiel observed.

“Maybe even more now. Now that more and more people are watching, I mean.”

Castiel put down the wine bottle and took his seat across from Dean. “Just imagine them in their underwear.”

“Does that even work?” Dean picked up one of the serving spoons and gestured for Castiel’s plate. “Besides, I can’t see them, so….”

Castiel shrugged. “Then imagine me in my underwear.”

“How’d I know you were going to say that?”

“Because you’re getting used to me.”

Dean smiled. There wasn’t any denying that.

“Dean,” Castiel said, once they’d started eating.

“Yeah?”

“What’s the nicest restaurant in Winchester?”

“Hmm. Nicest as in how? The most expensive?”

“As long as you think the prices are justified.”

“Then…definitely Le Petit Oiseau, about twenty minutes east of town. It’s a boutique hotel with probably the best restaurant in the county. Not cheap, though.” Dean sipped his wine. “Why?”

“What’re you doing on Friday night?”

“Uh….” Dean put down his fork. “Hang on. You’re not thinking—I mean, that place costs over a hundred bucks per person, and that’s before even getting to wine.”

Castiel finished chewing. “You’re free, then?”

“I mean, yeah, but—”

“Good. I’ll see if I can make a reservation for us.”

“Cass, no. I can’t accept that. It’s too much.”

“I want to do something for you, Dean. To thank you for being such a good host.” He rubbed the side of his wine glass. “Let me?”

Dean peered into Castiel’s eyes. He may have been getting used to him, but he was becoming more aware by the day that he didn’t actually know all that much about him. And yet—

“Okay,” Dean finally said.

“Thank you.” Castiel smiled. “And by the way, this dinner is perfect.”

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Cauliflower Gratin and Farro Pilaf with Blistered Asparagus

_Asparagus is a vegetable I had to feature on the blog before the end of spring, so I came up with this recipe that combines it with farro, feta, and pistachios for a pilaf that’ll keep you and yours coming back for more. It’s paired with a main dish that’s just as alluring: a rich, comforting cauliflower gratin with homemade breadcrumbs that’ll carry you through the last of the cool weather._

_Don’t be put off by the long list of ingredients. The dishes come together without too much effort and are real crowd pleasers. Besides, if Castiel can do it, so can you._

Cook time: 80 minutes

Serves 4

Herbs

¼ cup chopped flat-leaf parsley

¼ cup chopped tarragon

¼ cup chopped dill

Finely chop these and combine in a bowl for later.

Breadcrumbs

3 cups dry bread, shredded into breadcrumb-sized pieces*

2 tablespoons butter or vegan butter

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

2 cloves garlic, sliced in half

2 sprigs fresh thyme

2 sprigs fresh oregano

1 sprig fresh rosemary

1 sprig fresh sage

6 sprigs fresh flat-leaf parsley

Combine the butter and olive oil in a large pan on medium heat. Once the butter has melted, add the garlic and sprigs of herbs. Sauté for 2 minutes, then add the breadcrumbs. Sauté, stirring occasionally, until the breadcrumbs are golden brown and the bottom of the pan is dry, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat and pick out the herbs and garlic.

*I’ve found that about 4 slices of normal sandwich bread yield 3 cups. It’s fine if you have a little more or less.

Cauliflower Gratin

1 large cauliflower, washed and cut into ½ inch pieces

1 tablespoon butter or vegan butter

2 cloves minced garlic

¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper

Salt

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

Melt the butter in a Dutch oven over medium heat, then add the garlic and cayenne pepper. Sauté for 1 minute, then add the cauliflower. Cook, stirring regularly, until the cauliflower is soft but not mushy, about 15 minutes. Sprinkle with a pinch of salt and remove from heat.

Cheddar Mornay Sauce

8 tablespoons butter or vegan butter

½ cup flour

2 ½ cups milk or non-dairy milk

8 ounces grated sharp cheddar

½ teaspoon cayenne pepper

Add the butter to a large saucepan on medium low heat. Once it’s melted, whisk in the flour and let cook for about 2 minutes. In the meantime, heat the milk in your microwave for 1 minute to bring it closer to the temperature of the saucepan; we want to avoid huge temperature differences that will repeatedly cool the pan while assembling the sauce. Start whisking in the milk, about ¼ cup at a time, until you have a uniform, creamy sauce. If your pan ever starts rapidly bubbling, you need to turn your heat down.

Now that you have your Béchamel sauce, start whisking in your grated cheese, a little bit at a time. Once it’s all incorporated, stir in the cayenne pepper.

Use a spatula to get all your Mornay sauce into the Dutch oven holding the cauliflower.* Top with the breadcrumbs and bake until the cheese is bubbly and the breadcrumbs are well toasted, about 40 minutes.

*If you don’t have a Dutch oven, you can cook the cauliflower in a saucepan and assemble the gratin in a casserole dish.

Farro Pilaf

1 ½ cups uncooked farro, rinsed and drained

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

½ cup minced shallots

2 cloves minced garlic

½ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 ½ cups vegetable stock*

½ cup crumbled feta

¾ cup toasted pistachios

Sauté the olive oil, shallots, and garlic in a large saucepan over medium heat for about 4 minutes, then add the farro. Stir well so that each grain of farro is coated with the oil and aromatics. Add the vegetable stock and salt and increase the heat to high while stirring occasionally; once the pot is boiling, lower the heat to medium high and cook, stirring frequently, until the farro is tender and the liquid is completely absorbed, about 30 minutes. If you run out of liquid before the farro is fully cooked, continue adding more until it’s done. Taste the farro and add more salt if necessary.

Fluff the farro with a fork, then toss it with the feta, pistachios, and ¾ of the herb mixture you prepared at the start.

*If you don’t have vegetable stock on hand, water will do fine. It just won’t be quite as flavorful.

Blistered Asparagus

2 bunches asparagus, washed, tough ends snapped off

2 teaspoons olive oil

Juice of 1 lemon

Salt

Set your oven’s broiler to high. Mix the asparagus with the olive oil, then lay on a rimmed baking sheet and broil on the top shelf of your oven until soft and blackened in spots, around 10 minutes. Salt to taste and lay over the finished pilaf. Sprinkle with lemon juice and the remaining herb mixture.


	10. Chickpea and Collard Tajine

Castiel did their laundry the next day, which Dean found out when he drove back for lunch and saw his boxers on the clothesline, flapping in the wind. He’d also gathered the eggs. The wicker basket sat beside the mudroom sink, and as Dean washed and dried them he could hear the faint sounds of Castiel working on the other side of the wall. Once the eggs were in the refrigerator, he crossed the hallway again to knock on the library’s open door.

“Hey.”

Castiel looked up from his laptop. The scattering of books and papers had followed him down here, though they were spread out across the library’s central table rather than on the floor.

“Hello, Dean.” He sat back and stretched. “Did you see I got the eggs?”

He said it with so much excitement and pride that Dean had to laugh.

“You make it sound like you ran across the trenches in World War II,” Dean said.

“One.” Castiel stuck a bookmark in the open tome to his left. “World War I was the one with trenches.”

“Oh, right.” Dean scratched the back of his neck.

“You were right, though. They were friendly. Even the one who was looking at me funny yesterday.”

“Maybe she just likes you.”

“Typical,” Castiel sighed. “Wait until she finds out I’m more into cocks than hens.”

Dean screwed his eyes shut and slapped the side of his head. “Dammit, I definitely didn’t see that one coming.”

“How’s work?” Castiel said. He resumed typing.

“Just testing the fences. And reapplying some mulch on the strawberries. I think there were a couple days last week when the wind blew a lot of it away.”

“I can’t believe you do all of it yourself. It seems impossible.”

“No, I have people working here most of the year. It’s just the first few weeks of the growing season that I’m alone.”

Castiel looked up. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

“Yeah, but—you know what I mean. Working on the farm.”

“That’s true. I’d love to give you a hand, but I suppose I’m strapped to my metaphorical chair until this dissertation is finished.” He sighed again. “How am I already sick of this when I only started working an hour ago?”

“Take a break, maybe? I’m about to make lunch, have you eaten?”

“No.” Castiel rubbed his eyes. “No, I forgot.”

“Dammit, Cass. Come on.”

He made them sandwiches while Castiel hovered over his shoulder: ham and cheddar on one plate; hummus and thinly sliced vegetables on the other. Castiel returned the ingredients to the refrigerator one by one as Dean finished with them.

“You alright with leftovers for dinner?” Dean said, once they’d taken their food out to the deck.

“Of course.” Castiel washed down his bite with a sip of orange juice. “Oh, I made our reservation for Friday.”

“Cass, I still don’t—”

“Nope. Stop right there.”

Dean smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“The pictures on the website were beautiful. I had to call in to make the reservation, though.” Castiel wiped his mouth. “The woman I talked to—she was funny.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably.

“It was weird. When I told her my name, she stopped talking for a while. I thought the call had dropped.”

He was talking about Charlie, of course. Her job as the day shift front desk manager at Le Petit Oiseau included scheduling and reservations for the entire operation. At least she didn’t have any involvement with the restaurant outside of that and would have long since gone home by the time he and Castiel arrived on Friday.

“Anyway, it’s all taken care of. She said she moved things around to give us the best table in the place. I don’t know why. Maybe because I laughed at her jokes.”

“That’s—” Dean bit into his sandwich. “That’s great.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Castiel peered at him. “You look worried.”

“If I’m worried about anything, it’s about you forgetting to eat all the time.” Dean nodded at Castiel’s plate. “What would’ve happened if I hadn’t come back for lunch?”

“I don’t know. I would’ve passed out from hunger, I guess. You would’ve found me on the floor.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Dean said sharply.

“Oh. Okay.” Castiel looked down at his sandwich. “Sorry.”

For a few seconds, the only sound was the droning of the bees in the herb garden and the gentle tinkling of the wind chimes.

“No, I’m sorry.” Dean shook his head. “It’s not you. It’s just—that’s how I found my dad.”

“Oh. Oh, Dean.”

“And I don’t know why, but I worry about you. That something could happen to you while I’m gone all day.” Dean rubbed his hand over the lower half of his face, blinked away the embarrassing pricking in his eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Castiel set down his plate and scooted his deck chair a few inches towards Dean.

“It makes sense to me.”

Dean frowned. “It does?”

“You worry about the people you care about. And you’ve lost a lot of those same people. You want to keep them safe, but you know you can’t always do that.” Castiel looked down at their feet. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous when I say that. That I might be one of those people.”

“You are.” Dean knocked the side of his foot into Castiel’s bare ankle. “One of those people, I mean. Not presumptuous.”

Castiel smiled and batted Dean’s leg away with his.

“Don’t worry, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.” Castiel tapped his foot into Dean’s again. “And yes, that’s a threat.”

“Good.” Dean cleared his throat. “I better get back to work. If you get hungry before dinner, don’t forget all that stuff in the fridge.”

“I think I’ll fill my tank with Garth’s pastries throughout the afternoon.” Castiel picked up his plate and glass and followed Dean into the house. “You should take one with you, Dean. In case you get hungry.”

Dean bent down to pack his dishes into the dishwasher, then held out his hand for Castiel’s. He chuckled.

“We sound like we’re—”

“We do,” Castiel agreed. “I don’t mind it.”

“Of course _you_ don’t.” Dean straightened up and closed the dishwasher. “And I saw where you were looking just now.”

“You just have some straw on your butt. I could brush it off for you if you want.”

Dean burst out laughing. “At least buy me dinner first.”

“Suit yourself.” Castiel shrugged. “As long as you’re fine with having strawbutt until Friday night.”

Dean rested his hip against the lip of the sink. His face felt hot from laughter, from self-consciousness, from the rays of midday sun through the oaks outside. He wanted to snap a picture of Castiel in that moment, looking like the perfect image of feigned innocence, and write the kind of caption underneath it that answered its own question. _Fellas, is it gay if you never want your flirty male friend to move out of your house?_

Castiel uncurled the top of the beige paper bag. He plucked out an almond croissant and an éclair.

“You take the rest,” Castiel said, pressing the bag into Dean’s arms.

“Take more.”

Castiel let go of the bag and began retreating to the hall. “We can’t do the thing where we try to get the other one to hang up first, Dean. We’re too old for that.”

“Who says we can’t?” Dean called after him.

He tilted his head, then turned around from the doorway. He blinked, brow furrowed, as if Dean had said something unexpected and disturbing.

“We just can’t,” he said finally.

He looked at Dean’s hands holding the beige paper bag. For a second, he seemed to squint in pain, before quickly resuming his course to the other end of the house.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

They ate their leftovers in the living room that night. Crowley paced for more than a minute before finally deciding on Castiel’s side of the couch, which pleased Dean more than it probably should have.

“He’s getting used to you,” Dean pointed out.

“Already?” Castiel scratched at the little diamond of fur above Crowley’s nose. “Maybe because I’m home all day.”

“Hey.” Dean waved his fork at Crowley. “Hey, what am I? Chopped liver?”

Crowley yawned.

“Looks like it,” Castiel said.

Dean picked up the remote, feigning pique. Castiel patted his shoulder.

“It’s okay. I still prefer you.”

“Good to know I still win out over a cat in my own home,” Dean grumbled.

“Wow.”

Dean spun up Netflix before turning to Castiel with raised eyebrows.

“How are you pretty even when you’re sulking?”

“Flattery’s not going to get me to change my mind on what we’re watching,” Dean said. He navigated to _What’s New, Scooby-Doo?_ and queued up the pilot.

“Wasn’t my intention.” Castiel chewed his farro. “Wait, is that a yeti on a snowboard? I’m not sure how culturally sensitive that is.”

“Stop analyzing everything,” Dean groaned. “Can’t you switch your huge brain off for dinner at least?”

They watched two episodes of _Scooby_ before Dean reluctantly switched over to Castiel’s choice, _Our Planet_. Castiel offered to start from the beginning, but Dean shrugged and pressed play on the second episode, where Castiel said he’d left off back at his apartment. Despite him starting with the best intentions, Dean’s full stomach and the soothing voice of the English narrator conspired to lull him to sleep before very long.

He woke up—he wasn’t sure how long he’d dozed off for—to the sound of sniffling.

“Cass? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Dean.” Castiel rubbed his curled index fingers over his eyes. “It’s so sad.”

Dean tried to blink away his drowsiness. “What’s sad?”

“The walruses.” He sniffed again, then let out a long, labored breath. “Nowhere to go. We have to help them, Dean.”

On the television, the camera panned over what to Dean looked like featureless brown blobs. The narrator remarked on the perils of climate change for the entire planet.

“Yeah,” Dean said. Without thinking anything of it, he reached across the length of the sofa and rested his hand over Castiel’s.

“Dean?”

“I said yeah,” Dean mumbled. He felt his eyes drifting shut again. “Yeah, we should help them.”

“Are you just agreeing because you want to go back to sleep?”

He nodded sheepishly; his eyes were still closed. Castiel’s hand wriggled under his.

“Just go to bed if you’re tired.”

Dean grunted noncommittally, subduing Castiel’s hand with a flick of his forearm. Castiel’s pulse thrummed against the pad of Dean’s thumb.

“Stubborn,” Castiel huffed.

Neither of them talked or moved for the better part of a minute. Plaintive music soared from the television.

“You’re so soft,” Dean observed. He was surprised at how clearly his voice came out.

Castiel sniffled. “What?”

“Your hand.” Dean stroked over the fine hairs on Castiel’s wrist. “It’s soft.”

“Oh. I thought you meant emotionally.”

Dean grinned. “That too.”

Castiel jerked his hand away. Dean opened his eyes just a crack and peeked at the other end of the couch. Castiel was staring at the screen, his arms and legs both crossed, chewing his bottom lip. Under his cream-white polo shirt, his ribcage pushed out and in with incredible rapidity. He reminded Dean of an agitated bird—either one that had just been caught or one on the precipice of flying away.

“Makes me think.” Dean shut his eyes again and nestled back into the crook of the sofa. “I bet you haven’t done much manual labor in your life.”

“Define ‘much,’” Castiel said testily.

Dean rolled his eyes behind his eyelids. Why was he so damn cagey all the time?

“I mean, I helped renovate houses for 15 months in my twenties.”

“Huh. Maybe you just have a good moisturizer routine, then.”

Dean heard the remote slide across the coffee table, then the momentary crackle of the television being turned off. He blinked open his eyes to see Castiel picking up their dinner dishes.

“Where’re you going?”

“The episode’s over. I have to get back to writing.” Castiel turned back to him at the doorway. “Sorry, I figured you were done watching.”

Dean shrugged. He was miffed, but not because he’d wanted to watch more Netflix.

“Do you—” Castiel shifted his weight from one leg to the other, tipping away from the threshold. “Need a hand? Getting up?”

“I can manage.”

Castiel seemed relieved. He pushed off from his heels and started clinking around in the kitchen.

Flying away, then. Dean had probably gotten too close, either with his hand or his questions.

He clambered up from the couch and shuffled to the stairs. Maybe it was just because he was halfway gone to dreams already, but his mind felt weirdly distanced from his body as he climbed the steps—a sparking swirl of doubts and desires hovering above two trudging bowlegs. One knew the way without thinking; the other couldn’t decide where to begin, or whether it even wanted to.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Dean spent Thursday morning doing a last inspection of the worker housing, walking through it with Ash, the handyman his family had been contracting with since Dean was in high school. After they’d hammered out a timetable for the few small repairs that were needed, he invited Dean to their customary lunch at the hot dog stand in Bunker Hill, a few miles up the road. Dean texted Castiel before accepting.

_I’m going out to lunch. Will you be okay at home?_

_I’d invite you, but we’re going to a place that only serves meat._

_We?_

_My handyman._

_We always go to this place when he comes._

_I’ll be fine._

_Don’t forget to eat_ _😟_

 _I won’t_ _😇 I’ll eat the tamales you got me._

Dean slid his phone into his pocket and nodded to Ash.

“The new missus give you the green light?”

“I don’t have—it’s a friend who’s staying with me.”

“Oh.” Ash shrugged, closed the door of his van. “When you said ‘I should ask Cass,’ I sort of assumed.”

He wheeled his van around on the gravel, after which Dean started up his truck and followed him out to the highway. The workers would arrive in a week and a half. It was the first year since losing his father that Dean felt like he wasn’t scraping for every last second before that, trying to get all the pieces into place just in the nick of time.

Maybe he could do this after all.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Castiel was out on the deck, balancing on one leg with the other parallel to the ground and his arms pointing straight ahead, when Dean drove the truck back from the farm in the early evening. From a distance, he looked like a table, or—maybe more fancifully—a missile aimed at the horizon. Dean slowed the truck to a crawl for a few seconds before realizing he was gawking.

By the time he’d cleaned up in the mudroom and gone out to the deck, Castiel was in a different pose—a backbend with his hands on his ankles. He winked at Dean’s approach.

“In case you’re wondering, you’re just as good-looking upside down,” Castiel said.

He was back to the flirting, then. If he was still feeling any discomfort from the previous night, he wasn’t showing it. Dean actually felt his shoulders relax at that. He sat down on the deck chair nearest to Castiel’s yoga mat and pulled out his phone.

“I _have_ been told that, actually.”

Castiel furrowed his brow.

“Lisa,” Dean clarified.

“Oh, right.” Castiel released the pose, coming up to a neutral standing position. “How was work?”

“Good. Spent the morning walking through the worker housing, spent the afternoon with the blueberries. I’m just checking the blog right now.”

“Are we doing another video tonight?”

“Yeah, I just want to see how many potato recipes I’ve done so far. Don’t want to concentrate too much on one ingredient.” Dean counted on his left hand. “Yeah, too many. I’ll go with my backup. How was your day, Cass?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He was in a lunging twist now, which meant that he had to answer while facing the opposite direction. “About six hundred words in one of the case studies, but then I discovered some parts of the methodology section that I had to strip out because of inadequate data. So I’m probably just treading water so far in terms of total length.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It reminds me of what Oscar Wilde said about spending the entire day editing poetry. He took a comma out of a sentence in the morning and put it back in the afternoon.” Castiel switched sides, gave Dean a resigned look when they made eye contact. “That’s all he did that day.”

“It can be like that with farming,” Dean said.

Castiel tilted his head skeptically.

“Yeah. You can spend the entire season doing everything right, but pests, weather, natural disasters—one bad turn could land you right back where you started. Most farmers are happy if they do just a little bit better than break-even. Especially in the old days.”

“Today I learned that dissertation writing has something in common with farming.” Castiel started arching up into a forward bend. “That’s more interesting than a single fact I processed in the last seven hours.”

“Is that—” Dean smirked. “Downward dog?”

“It is. Care to join me?”

“No thanks.” Dean stood up, keeping his eyes away from Castiel’s backside at all costs. “I need to take a shower before we start dinner.”

He expected Castiel to remark on that, or at least sigh dejectedly, but he didn’t seem to betray any reaction at all. Dean chanced a look down from the cloud he’d been focusing on. Castiel’s grey T-shirt had fallen down to his armpits, revealing the tan, toned skin of his back and the little dimples just above the elastic waistband of his exercise shorts. Dean’s legs seemed to stop moving of their own accord. He felt his bottom lip hang open.

“You sure?” Castiel said, sounding oblivious. His head was completely obscured by his upper body. “We could just do like a fifteen-minute session.”

“Uh….” Dean closed his mouth. “Maybe—maybe this weekend. I’ll have more time then.”

“Okay.” Castiel entered a sitting pose, rolling his neck in circles once he was upright again. “This weekend.”

“Yeah. If you’re going to bend me over, I at least want to be relaxed.”

Castiel snorted. “I’ll be gentle with you, Dean. Don’t worry.”

Dean finally regained control of his legs. He strode to the French doors, banged into the house, and jogged up the stairs. Once he was safely ensconced in the bathroom, he yanked off his clothes and hurled them at the far wall, where they nearly brought down Henry’s antique clock shaped like the Hawaiian Islands. A single sob escaped his mouth.

It was strange, Dean thought, once he was under the showerhead and his breath had settled down a bit. He’d been going along with Castiel’s flirtations for weeks, but it was only now that he was recognizing the true significance of it all. He’d started off viewing the relationship as a means to an end: Castiel had followers, and Dean wanted them. Then they met, and he told himself that he just appreciated the attention. When Castiel came to stay over and the two of them fell into playing house so easily, Dean rationalized it by saying that it was because Castiel was good company.

His father had always said that he was too quick with excuses.

Last night had been some sort of pivot point. He’d reached across the couch to touch Castiel’s hand without a second thought, and though he could probably come up with an excuse for that if he tried, it wouldn’t be a convincing one. Dean was beginning to understand that he’d been lying to himself for a long time. And not just about Castiel.

He took his time in the shower; he took his time getting dressed. He sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, looking at his reflection above the bureau in the sunset. He heard Castiel moving around downstairs, creaking the floorboards in all the familiar places. When he thought waiting any longer would provoke Castiel to look for him, he pulled on his T-shirt and got up.

“Dean?”

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Castiel was calling him from the living room.

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I set up the camera, but you were taking a while. So I started writing this email.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said to the wall. “I have to do the prep, anyway.”

The clicking of the laptop’s keys started again. “I’m almost done.”

Dean walked out to the greenhouse for the collard greens first, then returned to the kitchen and made his hands busy. He started a pot of rice, opened a can of chickpeas, stemmed and chopped the collards. He smashed the cloves of garlic too hard and had to pick out little fragments of skin before mincing them. When he finished his mise en place, he stared at it with his hands on his hips, clutching his apron in a way that made his palms hurt after a while.

“Okay.” Castiel loped into the kitchen and started washing his hands. “Sorry that took so long. I was writing in Spanish.”

“No problem,” Dean said, without looking up.

“Need help with anything?”

Dean motioned at the island before him. “I got it all set up.”

Castiel reached for a dish towel. He dried his hands in silence.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, too quickly. “Let’s just shoot this and eat. I’m hungry.”

Castiel lingered uncertainly by the sink. Dean resisted looking at him.

“Whatever it is,” Castiel began. “You should just tell me. You’re clearly stressed. It’ll come through on camera.”

“Thanks, Oprah.”

“Dean.”

“I’m fine.” Dean fixed him with as placating of a smile as he could muster. “Please, let’s just get through this.”

He could tell that Castiel was concerned still, but he shrugged and moved to the tripod.

“Hey everyone.” Dean forced himself to loosen his grip on his apron. “In case you’re still recovering from all the cheese recipes I’ve been putting up lately, I’ve got an easy vegan meal for you today. You probably have most or all of the ingredients hanging out in your pantry already, and the only fresh one is something that’s available year-round.” He lifted the bowl of greens.

“Kale?” Castiel said.

“Close. Collards.” Dean motioned to the tiny seasoning bowls on his chopping board. “We’re making a tajine—a type of stew—that uses some interesting spices. Cinnamon, cumin, paprika.”

Castiel made a face. “Cinnamon stew?”

“Yeah. If you’re like Cass, you might not be used to using cinnamon in savory dishes, but I want you to try it here. The warm sweetness really enhances the other flavors.”

Dean continued the introduction for a few more lines. He trailed off awkwardly when Castiel slid off his stool and moved to his side of the island.

“The, uh—the….”

Dean’s eyes followed Castiel as he got closer.

“Sorry,” Dean managed. “Lost my train of thought.”

“You were saying why we should buy whole tomatoes and not crushed tomatoes.”

“Oh. Yeah. Less chemical additives.” Dean cleared his throat. “Alright, let’s get started.”

Castiel was an easy convert to “cinnamon stew,” as he’d put it. He leaned his elbows on the counter, bending down to sniff the spices in the pan as Dean stirred. Once the onions and garlic were in, Dean presented him with the scissors and had him snip up the tomatoes.

“This is fun,” Castiel said.

“Glad you think so.” Dean glanced at the tripod. “You can also just use your hands to crush the tomatoes. If you don’t feel like doing it this way.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me that was an option?”

“It gets messy if you aren’t careful. I didn’t want you squirting everywhere on camera.”

“Ah, right. Only in private.”

Dean slapped his forehead. “We’re going to have to censor that.”

“I don’t believe in censorship. We can just put a mild content rating on the video.”

“On a recipe?”

Castiel tilted his head at the tomato bowl. “I think I’m done. These look good.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean took back the kitchen scissors and placed them in the sink. “The greens and beans go in first, though.”

The rest of the ingredients went in; the saucepan was covered. Castiel paused the recording while Dean pulled out the plates, forks, and spoons for their table settings. He handed them to Castiel to put down, then began slicing a lemon.

“Will you tell me now?” Castiel said, loud enough for his voice to carry to the kitchen.

Dean walked to the dining room with the plate of lemon wedges.

“Tell you what?”

“What’s been bothering you.” Castiel placed the last piece of silverware and looked up. “Is something wrong with the farm?”

“No,” Dean sighed.

“Were you—were you thinking about your father?”

“What?”

“When you told me about how you found him.” Castiel shook his head. “I’m so sorry I dredged up that memory for you again, Dean.”

“No—it’s okay, Cass. That’s not what it was.” Dean put down the lemons. “You’re right, it is the farm. I’m just nervous. The start of the picking season…it’s a stressful time.”

Castiel’s features settled into a look of relief. Dean was never proud to lie, but he was glad he was good at it.

“Well, let me know if I can do anything. I may not know much about farming, but I give a mean massage. Could help you de-stress.”

“There it is.” Dean chuckled. “I was wondering when that was coming.”

Castiel frowned. “I wouldn’t try anything.”

“I—I know. I’m just having fun with you.” Dean looked over his shoulder. “Crap, I should check the stove.”

The tajine was done; Dean spooned it out into a clay serving bowl and dressed it with minced parsley. Castiel followed him to the dining room, carrying the rice.

“So,” Dean said, once they were eating. “Cinnamon’s alright with you?”

“More than alright.” Castiel put down his spoon and gave a little shake of his head. “I wish you could cook for me every night, Dean.”

“And what would I get out of that?”

“My gratitude, of course. And a smile.”

“Tempting,” Dean said dryly. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I’m never moving to DC, so….”

Castiel smiled—closed-mouthed, since he was chewing. “Are you inviting me to move in here?”

“Sounds more like you’re inviting yourself.”

Dean looked up when there wasn’t a reply. Castiel was staring out at the hallway.

“Before I forget, the reservation tomorrow’s for 6:30. I scheduled a taxi to pick us up at 5:45.”

“A taxi?”

“So you don’t have to worry about driving.”

“How much is that going to cost? That place is almost twenty miles away.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. 5:45.”

“5:45,” Dean echoed. “Alright, I’ll have to wrap up work early, then.”

“There’s a dress code,” Castiel continued. “But since you sent me that picture last week, I know you have a suit.”

Dean groaned. “A suit?”

“Well, I suppose it’s more of a ‘dress suggestion.’ They ‘recommend’ a jacket, but don’t require one. You should wear a blazer, at least. And if you’re wearing jeans, go for dark rather than blue.”

“What about you?”

Castiel’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “What about me?”

“What are you going to wear? You only have what you brought, right?”

“I packed a suit,” Castiel said blandly, as if he couldn’t imagine anyone not doing that. “A blue one. It’s always good to travel with a suit and a pair of dress shoes.”

“Okay.” Dean snorted. “Well, since you’re wearing a suit, now I have to wear one.”

“Wear your pink tie,” Castiel suggested.

Dean grimaced. “Now you’re pushing it. That tie goes back to the bottom of the drawer after the festival’s over each year.”

Castiel looked more amused than disappointed. He squeezed some lemon juice over his plate. Upon watching him for a few seconds, Dean laughed.

“What?”

“Just thinking. You tricked me into going on another date with you. I’m only realizing it now.”

“It’s a—” Castiel gathered up a bite. “What do you straight guys call it? A ‘bro date?’”

“Not really. A bro date’s like…going to a game, getting a beer or two at a brewery.”

“What’s the difference?”

“This is like—I mean, come on.”

Castiel tilted his head.

“We’re going to a French restaurant, one. Two, we’re dressing up. Three, you’re paying for everything.” Dean added more rice to his plate. “That’s stuff we’d do with a chick. Date stuff.”

Castiel waved dismissively. “Stop being so heteronormative.”

“I am—” Dean cut himself off. “I’m just telling you what the difference is. Since you asked.”

They talked idly for the rest of dinner. Castiel seemed pensive, but he made the excuse that his mind was dwelling on the problem with his methodology he’d mentioned earlier. After they cleaned up the kitchen, he asked Dean if he could edit the video this time and excused himself for the library. Dean watched him until he disappeared behind the tall mahogany door.

Dean spent the remainder of the evening in his office. It took him an hour and a half to edit the video—thankfully, this recipe was short and uncomplicated—and he spent some of his waiting time checking his email. Charlie had copied him on her correspondence with Garth, who wrote exactly as he spoke. Dean was really beginning to take a shine to the guy.

He finally posted the video and recipe at 11:15. When he clicked off his lamp and stood up, his back and neck cracking with the expectation of rest, he stopped to survey the backyard as he always did at one of the rear windows just before bed. A whitetail stood in the moonlight, staring through the garden fence at the daylily shoots.

Dean despised deer for how they ruined crops, so it surprised him that he felt a certain sympathy.

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“Cass?” Dean hollered. He heard frantic footsteps on the wood.

“I’m hurrying,” Castiel shouted, before slamming his door.

Dean had returned to the house half an hour ago and, figuring that he was the one running late, immediately jumped into the shower. When he left his bathroom, he heard Castiel racing up the stairs.

“I fell asleep,” he said, not stopping to look back. He started the shower without closing the door. Dean walked to his bedroom to get dressed, so he wasn’t sure if Castiel realized he’d left it open.

Dean listened to Foreigner while he got ready. He briefly considered the pink tie before choosing a bright purple one that reminded him of a slightly underripe blueberry. He lifted his nicest dress shoes from their place in the closet and dusted them off.

“Can’t stop now,” he sang. “I’ve traveled so far to change this lonely life.”

That was when he shouted for Castiel to hurry up.

Dean returned to his bathroom, scrunched his fingertips through his hair to work the paste through. He probably needed a haircut soon, but he was enjoying the extra length for now. Finally, he brushed his teeth and rubbed some of the moisturizer Sam had gotten him on his hands and face.

“Cass?” Dean glanced at his watch as he strode to the other side of the house. “He’ll be here any minute!”

There wasn’t a response from Castiel’s room, so Dean knocked.

“Yeah, come in.”

Dean opened the door. To his relief, Castiel was mostly dressed, clad in a slim-fitting azure suit, blinding white shirt, and Oxfords the color of acorns. All that was left seemed to be the tie dangling from his left hand.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep.” His shoulders sagged. “I didn’t sleep that well last night.”

“Hey, at least you’re rested now.”

Dean held out his hand, and Castiel looked at it quizzically.

“Huh?”

“Let me do it. You look stressed.”

Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Dean. I keep messing up.”

Dean draped the tie over Castiel’s neck, then tugged at the peaks of his collar to make sure the alignment was correct. He eyeballed the length on the left, then the right.

“Probably doesn’t help that I keep shouting at you,” Dean said, starting the first loop.

“It’s not how I’d prefer to hear you screaming my name, no.”

Dean jerked the tie; Castiel rocked forward and back with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“I was going to say I could choke you if you keep trying to get me to screw up, but you’d probably turn that into something dirty too.”

“Sounds like you already did that for me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean finished the last loop and started pulling the knot through. “You ever consider being less…I don’t know, blatant?”

“No. Why?”

Dean paused. He stroked his thumb over Castiel’s tie, avoiding his gaze.

“I—I don’t know. It’s just always seemed to me that when people want something real bad, they lie. They don’t come right out and say it.”

He could feel Castiel’s eyes on him, smell the spearmint on his breath.

“What is it you think I want, Dean?”

Dean frowned. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I mean, this is all a game, isn’t it, Dean? A running joke? I flatter you; you bask in the attention like a lion sunning himself on a rock? It’s all in good fun. Or—” His Adam’s apple bobbed, and when he spoke again, there was the tiniest iota of doubt. “Or….”

Dean finally looked up. “I better finish this.”

He tightened the knot, straightened it out, folded down Castiel’s collar. Neither of them spoke another word throughout. Once he’d finished, Dean lingered in Castiel’s presence, looking past him at the drifting curtains, the portrait of his mother, the unmade bed with its exposed sheets. A buzzing in Castiel’s pocket at last disturbed the silence.

“He’s downstairs,” Castiel said.

They walked down; Dean locked the door while Castiel went ahead. By the time he reached the taxi, Dean had succeeded in pushing down whatever he’d felt in the bedroom.

“This is the road that loops around the city on the north,” Dean explained, after they’d been driving for ten minutes or so. “There’s usually traffic in town right now, so it’s faster.”

The taxi driver nodded in the rear-view mirror.

“It’s pretty,” Castiel said. “Pastures and woods.”

“Yeah, once you get even five minutes outside of town, it’s pretty rural.”

Most of the rest of the drive was quiet—the expectant and light sort of quiet, like the whispering breeze in the alfalfa fields outside. Dean didn’t feel uncomfortable in the negative sense of the word; he realized, as he gazed out at the scenery, that he never had with Castiel. With him, he felt discomfort in the best way: the prickling of nerves on his skin that he hadn't felt in years; the lost time each day when he caught himself standing idly among the berries, thinking of a word or look or touch; the irrational faith that something in his life was about to change any minute. Dean snuck a glance at him when they turned onto the hotel’s narrow driveway, only to see that Castiel had had the same idea, just a little earlier.

“Beautiful,” Castiel said, once the taxi was driving off. They stood at the bottom of the steps to the front entrance, where glazed urns overflowing with Virginia bluebells, golden daffodils, and rainbow tulips stood guard. Bright green ivy covered most of the brick façade, and saucer magnolias arced gracefully between the first-floor windows.

“Yeah. Huh, I never usually see it from this angle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I do berry deliveries here during the season. But I always use the service driveway.” Dean scratched his head. “It’ll be weird for them to see me…you know. All dolled up.”

“Well, you look great.” Castiel gave the lightest possible pull to the knot at Dean’s neck. “Even if you didn’t choose the pink tie.”

“I thought you’d like this one.”

“I do. If not pink, purple’s the next best thing.”

Castiel beckoned him up the stairs. One of the double doors was propped open with a statue of a cherub, which Castiel paused to make a note of. The maître d' greeted them at the front of the restaurant.

“Reservation for Kline,” Castiel said.

Their table was ready early, so they followed her through the packed dining room and out to the side patio. There were only five tables out here, ringed around a central fountain crowned with another angel, far enough away from one another to allow privacy if not secrecy. Theirs was the one farthest from the doors, shaded by a rose pergola and bracketed off from the other tables by huge clay pots of azalea, peony, and mint. The maître d' lit one of the candles on the table that had gone out before departing with a promise that their server would be with them soon.

“Cass?”

“Hmm?”

Dean looked up from the menu. Castiel wasn’t looking at him; he’d twisted in his seat to sniff a cluster of roses behind his shoulder.

“Some of the stuff on here’s only in French.”

“Oh. How pretentious. I can translate for you if you want.”

“Order for me, too. I don’t even want to know how badly I’ll butcher it.”

“Are you doing the prix fixe? It’s faster for me to go through that with you than the whole menu.”

“Uh.” Dean rubbed his neck. “Sure.”

“You’ll have to choose an appetizer, a main course, and a dessert. The rest of it’s decided for you.”

“The rest of it?”

“There’s a salad, sorbet, and coffee and chocolate at the end. And the amuse-gueule is the same for all diners, of course.”

“Of course,” Dean murmured, pretending that he’d gotten all that. He hunched over his menu.

“Then there’s our wine. What do you feel like? If you want wine, that is.”

“You choose. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Castiel made a contemplative sound. Before Dean could say anything else, a pair of footsteps approached their table.

“Hello. Sorry for the wait. How are you two doing tonight?”

Dean sat up, his eyes wide.

“Charlie?”

“Hi, Dean.”

“You two know each other?” Castiel said.

“Yes.” Dean scowled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Castiel dropped his menu. “Dean!”

“Um, I work here?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Dean, I’ve worked here since before we even met.” She looked around the patio. “Can you quiet down?”

“You work behind a desk on the hotel side,” Dean hissed.

“One of our servers is stuck at the doctor’s office and Dick couldn’t find anyone else on short notice. I did used to do this job not too long ago, you know.”

Dean let out an indignant puff of breath and turned to Castiel, who looked utterly befuddled.

“Dean, what’s going on?”

“She’s—Charlie’s a friend of mine. And she works for me.”

Dean left his explanation there. He was too shocked to care that it was inadequate.

“Uh-huh. Well, it’s nice to meet you, then. I’m Castiel.”

“Castiel? That’s an interesting name.”

Dean tsked loudly and rolled his eyes. “Like you didn’t know who he was.”

“Huh? Oh, I see,” Castiel said. “It was you on the phone. Well, isn’t this a funny coincidence.”

“Yeah.” Dean rolled his eyes even harder this time. “What a big coincidence.”

There was an awkward pause over the table. Some of the other guests were starting to peek at them discreetly.

“So, any questions about the menu?” Charlie finally said.

“Not yet. Dean?”

Dean shook his head sullenly.

“And do you have any food allergies, Castiel? I know he doesn’t.”

“Oh, talk about me like I’m not here.”

“Stop it, Dean,” Castiel said sternly. “No, I don’t. Though I am a vegetarian.”

“We can accommodate that. What about drinks? I can have our sommelier talk with you about wine pairings.”

Charlie and Castiel chattered on for what felt like minutes, even sharing a laugh at one point. Dean pretended he was anywhere else. The center of the Earth, maybe, or the surface of the Moon.

“Okay,” Charlie said. “I’ll be back in a little bit to see if you’ve made your selections.”

A few seconds later, Castiel nudged Dean’s foot.

“Dean?” Castiel sighed. “What’s the matter?”

Dean faked a smile, then sprang up from his seat. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”

He marched into the dining room and tore through to the front end. Charlie was tabulating something at one of the registers.

“I want a different waiter,” Dean said, balling his fists. “Now.”

“Dean, what part of ‘short-staffed’ do you not understand?”

“I don’t even know if I believe that.”

“What?” Charlie glared up at the ceiling. “Dammit, you made me lose count. Now I have to start over.”

“I said that I don’t think you’re short-staffed. I think you planned all this out to spy on me. I’m sick of you, and Kevin, and Jo, and even Sam—”

“What in the name of Alan Turing are you talking about?”

“You’re all so damn nosy. Why can’t any of you mind your own business? Why can’t you let me figure out what I’m feeling for Cass at my own pace?”

He’d let his anger get away from him and instantaneously regretted it. Charlie’s mouth fell open; she dropped the papers in front of her and circled around to his side of the bar.

“Dean.” She patted his heaving chest. “Dean, look at me.”

Dean brushed the back of his hand over his eyes.

“Oh, Dean.” She dove forward and hugged him. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been a shitty friend. I took the joking too far because I started convincing myself that it _was_ a joke. I didn’t know….”

Dean embraced her gingerly. He could already feel his resentment ebbing away.

“Just—stop pushing. Please.”

“Of course. Of course, 100%.” She rubbed his back. “I’m really sorry. You know I only want you to be happy.”

“Yeah,” Dean managed.

“And if you need to talk to anyone, just let me know. But I won’t ask.”

Dean nodded against her head. “Okay.”

“And we really are short-staffed,” she added, after a few seconds. Dean laughed in response.

“I better wash my face.” He stepped away from the hug and looked around. “Where’s—”

“Right there.”

“Thanks.” Dean walked a few steps before turning around. “Who’s Alan Turing?”

Charlie looked up from her papers and smiled. “Get Cass to tell you.”

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When Dean got back to the table, Castiel was sitting with his hands folded in front of him. There was a tall bottle beside the candles and wine in both their glasses.

“There you are.” Castiel furrowed his brow. “What took you so long?”

“I’m so sorry, Cass.” Dean slid into his chair. “About the wait and about…before. I wasn’t feeling so great, but I took a few minutes to breathe and I’m fine now.”

“What was it? Headache? Stomachache?”

“Just—something I needed to walk off.” Dean fingered the stem of his wine glass. “You ordered for us?”

“Only the wine. The sommelier came while you were gone. I got the 2006 Chambertin-Clos de Bèze.”

Dean sniffed the rim of his glass. “Is that a, um, good one?”

“Yes, though I only had a first taste. I was waiting for you to return.” Castiel raised his glass. “I remember having it with my father once at a restaurant in Portland. Senior year of college. Well, I suppose it must have been an earlier vintage then. It’s supposed to keep for at least ten years.” He looked at Dean expectantly.

“Oh, is it my turn to come up with the toast?”

“It’s your punishment for making me wait.”

“Yeah. Sorry again.” Dean took a deep breath. “To you and me, Cass. Cheers.”

Castiel peered at him over their clinking glasses. The garnet liquid sloshed in the candlelight.

“Me and you?” Castiel said, once he’d sipped.

“Who else?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel thumbed the tablecloth. “Shall we go through the menu?”

“Yeah, we better do that before Charlie gets back. This wine is nice.”

“I agree.” Castiel lifted his menu. “Let’s start with the appetizers.”

Dean got the oysters with Béarnaise sauce, steak with truffles, and cardamom crème brulée; Castiel ordered a chive crêpe with wild mushrooms, fiddlehead and ramp quiche, soupe au pistou, and chocolate tart. Along with the shared sides of pommes frites and haricots verts—Dean teased Castiel for calling them that—and the house salad, sorbet, and choux amuse-gueule, it was almost too much food.

They spent most of their time trading stories about old friends, travel destinations, embarrassing situations—the sorts of things, Dean clarified to Castiel, that people talked about on a second date. Upon finishing two glasses of wine, he even confessed to finding it sexy when Castiel spoke French.

“I knew you did,” Castiel said. “It’s okay. You’re only human.”

“There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance.” Dean sliced off a ribbon of steak. “You’re teetering on the edge.”

“I better stop talking, then.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You said you’d tell me more about when you were traveling the world, remember?”

“Ah.” Castiel swirled his soup. “You’re right, I did. Well, the truth is that it wasn’t just me screwing around for all of those two years. I was working for most of it.”

“Working?”

“Yes, nonprofit work. A few close friends of mine set up a humanitarian NGO while we were still in college. After graduation, I decided to take a job with them. Mostly antimalaria campaigns—nets, water control. I think we helped a lot of people.”

“But you didn’t want to keep going?”

“After two years away, I wanted to be closer to home.” Castiel opened his mouth as if to add something more, then covered it with his wine glass. Dean speared a few green beans and brought them to his plate.

“I get that,” he said.

“I was still able to help people there,” Castiel said. “I worked at a homeless shelter for a while, then started the winterization job I told you about. We kept a lot of poor seniors from freezing over the winter. For many years to come.”

Dean chuckled.

“What?”

“You call me perfect, but you’re like a literal angel. Helping people who need it most. Man, I—” he shook his head. “You’re amazing, Cass, really. You’re not just one of those people who complains on the internet about how bad the world is. You go out and make things better.”

Castiel looked down at his plate. “Dean.”

“I mean it. Take the compliment, Cass.”

Before Castiel could say anything back, Charlie swished up and began clearing away some of their unused dishes. Once she was gone, Castiel deftly guided them back to an exchange of fluffy stories about keggers at Bowdoin and road trips to Stanford that lasted them through dessert. Dean couldn’t understand how someone who liked to boast about how attractive he was had such a hard time accepting praise about anything else.

“Did you enjoy your dinner?” Castiel said, once the bill had arrived. He was writing out the tip, and Dean was on his third chocolate truffle.

“Oh, yeah. It was…parfait. Is that the French word for perfect?”

Castiel gave him a soft smile in the candlelight. “Yes.”

“I know it because it’s a cooking term.”

“I’m happy you liked it. It’s the least I could do with you cooking for me every day.”

Dean considered another chocolate before deciding against it. He picked up his demitasse instead.

“You know how you said you could get used to me cooking for you?” Dean sat back with his coffee cup. “I could get used to this. You taking me out to eat.”

“Oh?”

“Not—I mean, it doesn’t have to be fancy like this every time. I’d be fine with just going to a burger joint. With veggie burgers. Good food, good company—I can’t think of anything better.”

Castiel looked up at the pergola roses with bashful dimples on his cheeks. Dean was reminded of the day they’d met; how he’d had the same look on his face when Dean told him he didn’t want to label the good time they were having.

There were footsteps on the patio’s brick, and Castiel handed the tray with his credit card to Charlie. He seemed content to sit in easy silence until she returned. Dean sipped his espresso and watched the candlelight dance on his face.

Castiel had already pushed his chair back when Charlie returned with his card. “The taxi will be here any moment,” he explained. Charlie tapped Dean’s forearm as Castiel went ahead, jogging up to the dining room.

“I’m not giving you any details,” Dean said warily.

“No, not that.” Charlie lowered her voice even further. “He gave me a $250 tip.”

“Wait, what?”

“Which was, like, 50%.” She looked back at their table. “Maybe he felt bad about how—”

“How I flew off the handle? Yeah.”

Dean looked down the aisle of the restaurant; Castiel had made it to the end and was hovering in the hotel lobby.

“I better go. Cass said the taxi’ll be here any minute now.”

“Okay, just—tell him I said thank you? I’m not supposed to say it in person, it’s against etiquette. But.”

“Yeah. See you at the farmer’s market tomorrow.”

Charlie nodded. “I’m finally off now; you guys were my last table.”

Dean patted her shoulder, then made his way to the lobby. Castiel looked up from his phone.

“They’re outside. Was something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. Let’s go.”

They settled into small talk on the ride back. It felt weird to converse about anything more than that in the back of a taxicab, especially anything to do with money. Without trying to be too obvious about it, Dean watched the exchange of bills from Castiel to the driver when they pulled up to the house. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for.

They got indoors. Dean shed his shoes and loosened his tie, then teetered in the doorway of the kitchen, uncertain. Crowley walked around the corner and stared at him as if he apprehended the entire farrago of tangled thoughts in Dean’s head and didn’t care for most of them.

“Dean?”

He felt Castiel’s hand on his back.

“Yeah.” Dean smiled tightly. “Have a drink with me, Cass?”

“Why not.” Castiel squatted down to greet Crowley. “It’s Friday.”

Dean started the kettle, then walked through to the dining room to get the whiskey. Castiel was moving from room to room on the first floor, turning on the lights. It was nice to have help with that.

“Put on some music,” Dean suggested, once Castiel had returned to the kitchen. “The record player’s at the east end of the living room, under the front window.”

“‘Record player,’” Castiel chuckled. “You and your antiques.”

“Don’t knock vinyl.” Dean shooed him away with the shot glass in his hand. “Go on.”

He rinsed, dried, and sliced a lemon into wedges. He dropped dollops of honey into their glasses. The kettle felt like it was taking forever.

“These are your records, Dean?” Castiel said from the living room.

“Yeah, some of them. Dad bought most of those, though. Good thing we like the same music.”

Castiel made a thoughtful noise. The kettle finally popped.

“Charlie, uh—Charlie wanted me to thank you for the tip you gave her.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. It was crazy generous of you.” _But how do you have all this money to throw around_ , Dean’s tactless brain wanted to blurt out.

“I figure we got off to a rocky start. As long as she didn’t spit in our food, I consider those wages well-earned.”

Dean stirred the glasses until the water, whiskey, and honey were blended. He perched the lemon wedges on the rims and walked across to the living room.

“I’m sorry about that, Cass. Again.” Dean handed him his drink. “I overreacted about something—something that happened the last time I saw her. I almost ruined our dinner.”

“Whatever it was, things can’t be that bad between you two if she told you about the tip.” Castiel clinked his glass into Dean’s. “Cheers.”

Dean felt instantly relaxed by the warm whiskey and honey. He flopped down at the edge of the couch and stared at Castiel’s back.

“You going to look through the entire collection before you choose something?”

“Well, it _is_ fascinating. I knew you were into old music, but I didn’t know you went this old.”

“What’re you talking about?” Dean tipped more of the whiskey into his mouth. “The sixties and seventies aren’t that old.”

“I’m not talking about those.” Castiel waved a record over his head without turning around. “This stuff. Billie Holiday. Bing Crosby. Cab Calloway. Thirties, Forties.”

“Oh. Yeah, that must be Henry’s stuff. Maybe even Henry’s parents, I don’t know.”

“Hey, here’s one in French.” Castiel placed his glass on the bureau. “Shall we listen to it? It fits our evening so far.”

“Why not. I already admitted that I find your French sexy, so….”

Castiel laughed. “So you did. ‘Mon Coeur Est Un Oiseau Des Îles.’ Joséphine Baker. ‘My heart is a bird of the islands.’ Or ‘my heart is an island bird.’ That might be the less literal translation.”

“You know how to get it playing?”

“Yeah. My dad has one just like this at his house.”

Dean nodded. He was curious about Castiel’s father—what kind of person he was, why Castiel didn’t talk to him. He also had the gut instinct that his father was the key to making sense of the rest of the enigma around him.

Across the room, Castiel nearly dropped the sleeve upon extracting the record from it. He caught it before it hit the ground.

“I’m okay,” he said.

Well, enigma was a strong word. Dean was just curious about him, and if he was right about the feelings he was developing for Castiel, he’d prefer to find out any nasty surprises sooner rather than later.

The crackling of the turntable interrupted his musings.

“Ah.” Castiel exhaled as he turned around. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s been playing for two seconds.”

“Just a sense I have.” He beckoned to Dean. “May I have this dance?”

“Me?”

Castiel reached the arm of the couch; he held out his hand. Dean rolled his eyes and downed the rest of his drink.

“The things I do for you,” he said, once he was standing. “Alright, get your arms around me.”

Castiel’s hands met around Dean’s waist. He was surprisingly tentative, and Dean had to gather him in closer by the shoulders to not feel awkward.

“If you want to dance, don’t hold me like a virgin at homecoming,” Dean grumbled. He pushed into Castiel, and they were off, tracing slow, lazy ellipses on the carpet.

“Just wanted you to take the lead,” Castiel replied.

“Are you going to translate for me?” Dean said, once the lyrics began. “Like at dinner?”

“If you want. She’s just singing the title right now.”

“Island bird?”

Castiel nodded. “‘Who only sings for love. In your arms he finds’—wait, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, French is pretty tough. Maybe you got a word wrong.”

“I’ve been learning French since I was four. I don’t ‘get words wrong.’”

Dean snorted. “Touchy, touchy.”

“Asylum,” Castiel said. “That’s what it was. Crap, now I’m behind. ‘My joy of living, darling it’s you.’”

“Aw.”

“She’s just repeating the beginning now. Do I have to do the whole song?”

“Just tell me the important parts. I want you to enjoy the moment.”

“Are you?” Castiel said, after a beat. “Enjoying the moment?”

They were spinning near the mantel of the fireplace, where a goofy-grinned portrait of Henry watched over them. Dean looked into Castiel’s eyes.

“This is the best night I’ve had in I don’t know how many years. So, yeah. I’m enjoying the moment.”

Castiel swallowed. He averted his gaze to focus on a point above Dean’s shoulder. They whorled back towards the record player, nearly grazing the coffee table as they passed.

“What about this part,” Dean asked. “What’s the translation?”

“She’s mimicking a bird. It’s not French. There’s no translation.”

Dean chuckled. His tongue darted out for a split-second.

“You knew that.” Castiel glowered at him. “Very funny. And I was trying to be considerate.”

He really looked incensed, and Dean only found that funnier. That had always been a bad habit of his—finding annoyed people funny and angry people hilarious. As long as they weren’t his father, of course.

Castiel, though—he wasn’t just amused by annoyed, French-speaking Castiel. He also felt the kind of greedy, heedless attraction that had gotten him into trouble with so many women in the past. Another of his bad habits.

“Well, Cass, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me like that—I got laid.”

Castiel’s feet stopped moving. His arms tensed like iron bars around Dean’s back.

“Why would you just come out and say something like that?”

“Um. I don’t know.” Dean lowered his gaze, already feeling whipped back to reality. “Maybe those cocktails I made were stronger than I thought.”

Castiel didn’t seem satisfied by that excuse. He looked over his shoulder at the trilling of the record player. Dean, feeling foolhardy, decided to press his luck.

“Don’t know why I have to explain myself to you,” he mumbled.

Castiel turned back to him with a puzzled expression. “What?”

“I mean, why’s it only you who gets to blurt out whatever’s on your mind? Why are you the only one who doesn’t have to have a filter?”

“Come again?”

“You heard what I said. You get a taste of your own medicine and you’re suddenly uptight?”

Castiel tried to pull away, fluttering and flexing his shoulder blades, but Dean held him fast. After a few halfhearted seconds, he went for the other extreme, pressing his chest into Dean’s and his cheek into the side of Dean’s neck.

“You’re straight,” he said. The defeat in his voice only made Dean want to hug him tighter.

“So?”

“So, you shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.” Castiel delivered a gentle kick to Dean’s socked toes, and they resumed their dance over the living room’s elliptical carpet.

Dean considered this. He rubbed his thumb down the valley of Castiel’s back, nuzzled into the soft brown hair at the side of his head, as Castiel led for a while.

“Things you _can’t_ mean,” he said, leaning his head away from Dean. There wasn’t any bitterness in his voice, just practiced resignation. Dean wondered how many times Castiel had had to deliver these words.

A new track began at the other end of the living room. It seemed that all thoughts of translation had fallen by the wayside.

“Remember what I said at that restaurant in DC?” Dean murmured. “Our first date?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel said warily.

“I told you that I didn’t want to label things. I just knew that I liked spending time with you.”

To drive home the point, Dean slowly ran his fingers down, then up Castiel’s back. He rubbed his chin into the swell of Castiel’s shoulder; it felt hot and wiry-strong even through his suit. Castiel breathed out, long and slow. His warmth tickled Dean’s ear.

 _Well,_ Dean thought wryly. _One advantage of two men is that there’s no misreading signals when you’re pressed up this close._

As if realizing the same thing, Castiel began extricating himself from Dean. He wiggled his shoulders until Dean released him, then stepped back with a delicacy that only called more attention to the front of his pants. He shook his head.

“What’s wrong?” Dean said.

“No, Dean.” Castiel ran his hands through his hair, rubbed his eyes. “I’m not sure if you’re making fun of me again, or if you’ve had too much to drink, or—or what.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Goodnight,” Castiel said simply. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He walked out of the living room, turning towards the stairs before he even reached the hallway.

“Cass!” Dean shouted.

The door to the upstairs bathroom slammed shut. Dean stared down at the patterns left by their feet in the carpet until the record player finally ran out of music and he had to switch it off.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Chickpea and Collard Tajine

_This easy vegan stew comes together with some of the most common pantry ingredients. It’s packed with both nutrition and flavor and is easily adaptable—try switching out the collards for mustard greens or the chickpeas for kidney beans. Serve with bread or rice and lemon wedges on the side for a quick weeknight meal!_

Cook time: 40 minutes

Serves 2

1 15-ounce can chickpeas, drained and rinsed

1 bunch collard greens, washed, stems removed, chopped

½ medium yellow onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 15-ounce can whole tomatoes

1 teaspoon cumin seeds

¼ teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon paprika

¼ cup chopped flat-leaf parsley

1 tablespoon olive oil

Salt

Heat the olive oil in a large saucepan on medium heat. Add the cumin seeds, cinnamon, and paprika and warm through until aromatic, about 1 minute. Add the garlic and onions and cook until onions are soft and translucent, about 10 minutes. (If the garlic or onions start to brown, lower the heat to medium low.) While that’s cooking, empty your can of tomatoes into a bowl and snip the whole tomatoes into smaller pieces with a pair of kitchen scissors.

Add the collard greens and cook, stirring occasionally, until wilted, about 5 minutes. Add the chickpeas, then the tomatoes. Cover, reduce heat to low, and cook for another 15 minutes. Salt to taste and top with parsley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mon Coeur Est Un Oiseau Des Îles](https://youtu.be/2UwESTn-4bU) really is a beautiful song, if you'd like to listen to it. I think it fits Castiel quite well in this story.


	11. Mustard Greens Colcannon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As originally conceived, this chapter was a lot more restrained. But then the series finale happened and…well, this wrote rawer than intended. However, I like the change.
> 
> We all deserved so much more than we got. These two especially.

_Hey Cass._

Dean stared at the blinking cursor, pressing his lips together. He looked up at the promenade to make sure no customers were hovering before returning to the message.

_I’m at the farmer’s market today. Not sure if I mentioned it to you._

_Should get home around 6:45._

Dean pressed the send button and immediately shut his eyes. Despite it being his lunch break, he’d barely touched his sandwich. Since waking up, his stomach had felt cramped and queasy, like he’d been trundling down a gravel road littered with potholes for miles and miles. His head wasn’t doing much better.

He must have replayed last night at least twenty times since breakfast—he hadn’t eaten anything then either—and wasn’t any closer to figuring out what he’d said or done that had offended Castiel so much. At least, he’d seemed offended. Maybe Dean was wrong about that, too.

“Dean?”

He opened his eyes. Kevin was peering at him from the other side of the market stall.

“Huh?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. He didn’t bother to make it convincing. “Why don’t you take your lunch now? It’s pretty dead.”

Kevin looked longingly in the direction of his favorite burrito place. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Charlie’ll be back soon, anyway.”

After a quick thumbs up, Kevin picked up his messenger bag and walked down the promenade. Dean attended to a young couple who bought two boxes of raspberry tea and a bottle of blueberry syrup, then sat down again to nibble at his sandwich and watch his phone.

He nearly dropped it when it started buzzing.

Castiel was calling him. Dean had imagined all variety of terse, distant, and confrontational texts, but he’d never considered the possibility that he’d call. For some reason, Dean feared this more than anything Castiel could have typed in response.

After several rings, Dean answered. His entire head felt warm; his neck throbbed with every pulse.

“Cass?”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel grunted, and there was a faint, soft sound, like the crushing of fabric. “Good morning. It’s still morning.”

“Yeah. Morning.” Dean shifted in his chair. “Did you, uh, get my text?”

“Uh-huh. I decided to call instead of writing back. I just woke up and don’t feel like starting my day battling with autocorrect.”

“That’s valid.”

Castiel groaned softly; Dean heard the creaking of bedsprings. He shifted in his chair again.

“You, uh—you sound like you’re still in bed.”

“I am. I don’t feel like getting up yet. You weren’t lying when you said it’s comfortable.”

Dean had always been a visual person, so he was finding it hard not to imagine Castiel while he talked to him. He was sprawled out on those cloud-white bedsheets, his messy hair falling in his eyes and over the phone’s microphone, the duvet thrown back to reveal just the upper half of his body. Shirtless, with the golden sun painting every line of his lithe torso and narrow waist. He seemed the type to sleep in just his boxer briefs. Maybe less.

“You still there?” Castiel said.

“Yeah.” Dean cleared his throat. “Sorry, just thought I saw someone.”

“Ah.” There was more rustling of fabric. “You’re at the farmer’s market?”

“Yeah. I was going to say I could come home and get you if you want to see it. Wouldn’t be for a little bit, since Charlie and Kevin need to get back from lunch first, but….”

A few seconds passed before Castiel finally made a vague noise.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Alright,” Dean said, trying to sound unbothered. “That’s fine.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Castiel sniffled, then coughed.

“Hay fever.” Castiel’s headboard bumped against the bedroom wall. “I forgot to close my window last night. Do you get springtime allergies, Dean?”

“Not too bad.”

“That’s good. They’d be a bigger challenge for you than me since you work outdoors all day.”

Dean frowned. Was Castiel really staying on the line just to talk about hay fever?

“Maybe they’re worse this morning since I drank so much yesterday. Everything’s worse after a night of too much booze.”

“You didn’t go too hard. Pretty sure I drank more of that bottle of wine than you.”

“You could have a higher tolerance than me, too. I’m not as big as you.”

“That a dig at my weight?”

“I’m saying you’re taller and more muscular.” Castiel blew his nose. “Yeah, I definitely drank too much. I can hardly remember anything that happened after we got home from the restaurant.”

Dean rolled his eyes. So, this was how he was going to play it. He was such a liar.

“Huh,” Dean replied. He wanted to blurt out a dozen far more cutting things, but it wouldn’t be good for them to get into a fight while he was on the phone at work.

“Yeah. Well, I better go make some coffee. I’ll try to finish as much writing as I can while you’re gone. That way, I can take the night off.”

That was unexpected. Dean had expected him to double down on the avoidance by cloistering himself in the library once dinner was over.

“What do you—what do you want to do?”

“I’ll help you with cooking,” Castiel said. “Are you shooting another recipe?”

Every word was stiff as cardboard. His deep, craggy voice danced with none of the verve and lightness that Dean was used to.

“Yeah.” Ellen and Jo were walking up to the stall from the direction of Harvelle’s, and Dean waved to them. “We could watch something after that.”

Dean heard him stand up. He groaned, whiny and indulgent, with another stretch. Dean looked down at his lap.

“Is that what you normally do on Saturday nights?”

“I’m kind of a homebody these days. But if you can think of something more exciting you want to do, I’m all ears. On the condition that you remember it this time.”

Dean tried to play his last sentence off as a joke, but he couldn’t resist lacing it with a dash of bitterness. Castiel sighed.

“I do remember last night, Dean. Vividly. I was giving you the chance to say you didn’t.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

More silence on Castiel’s end.

“I thought you might have been embarrassed by your behavior,” Castiel said, enunciating every syllable with frosty precision. “And, more importantly, mine. That you’d want to forget it. I guess I assumed wrong.”

Ellen was looking at him expectantly. She’d already gathered two jars of jam and a vacuum-sealed bag of dried strawberries at the edge of the table.

“I have to go,” Dean said gruffly. “But we’re talking about this when I get home.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is. And don’t forget to eat. There’s plenty of food in the fridge.”

Dean ended the call before Castiel could reply. He exhaled and started counting out Ellen’s change.

“You okay?” Jo said.

“Yeah.” Dean shook his head. “Yeah, it’s just—”

“Oh, right.” Jo pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “You have a friend staying with you.”

“Is that the one you came for lunch with the other day?” Ellen said.

“Yeah. He’s just—he can get a little silly sometimes.”

“He’s not single, is he?” Ellen placed the jam and dried berries in her jute tote bag. “He seemed like Jo’s type.”

“Mom.” Jo’s eyebrows hardened over her shades.

“Well, I sincerely doubt that.” Dean neatened the rows of berry products between them. “He’s gay.”

“Oh.” Ellen stroked her chin. “You know, I did think he was a little all over you—”

“Mom,” Jo interrupted. “Please stop talking. Please.”

“Sorry.” Ellen waved. “Have a good day, Dean.”

Dean nodded, and Ellen moved on to the next stall. Jo lifted her sunglasses to give Dean a sympathetic wink before joining her.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Just after six, Dean, Charlie, and Kevin broke down the market stall and drove back to the warehouse. They unloaded the truck faster than usual—sales had been a fair bit higher than Dean had anticipated—so Dean got home a few minutes before 6:45. He looked at his phone as he closed the garage door behind him. It had vibrated on the short drive up the hill.

 _Dean, can you make me comfort food tomorrow_ _😢_

Dean sighed.

_What happened?_

_I had a date last night. Disaster doesn’t even begin to describe it._

_Worst part is, it was all my fault._

Dean paced in the driveway, his lunchbox dangling from his left arm, as he composed his reply.

_Okay, I’ll make it for you._

_I think I only have normal mushrooms, though. The brown ones._

_And I’m doing potatoes tonight, so I’ll make us sweet potato fries tomorrow._

_That’s fine_ _😊_

_How’re you and Cass doing?_

Dean chewed his lip. How much did he want to tell him?

_Uh…well, we sort of went on a date too last night._

_Not a date date, but…._

_WHAT?_ _😵_

_I just said it wasn’t a date date._

_Screw you._

_Tell me everything._

Dean lay down on the lawn and held his phone above his eyes as he typed. They’d had almost a week straight of sun, so the grass was warm and dry under his body.

_We took a taxi to Le Petit Oiseau._

_Wine, amazing food, great conversation._

_Charlie was our waiter but not as annoying as she could’ve been._

_I felt kind of bad because Cass wouldn’t let me pay for anything._

_We got home and_

_We slow danced in the living room._

_But then I must have said something wrong, because he just bolted._

Normally, Dean wouldn’t divulge this much to Sam; nor would Sam ask. But Dean was feeling pretty lost when it came to why things had ended the way they had last night. Maybe Sam could offer some insight.

_Oh. My. God._

_This is so fucking adorable._

_Dude, stop creaming yourself._

_I can’t help it, Dean._

_God, I knew I wasn’t wrong about how you guys were looking at each other._

Dean’s face went red.

_How he was looking at me, maybe. You know I’m straight._

_😐_

_Dean, with how much your mouth hangs open when you look at him, I’m surprised flies haven’t gone in._

_And all the touchy-feely, no personal space stuff._

_Like, you guys stand right on top of each other for no reason._

_You’re just seeing what you want to see._

_I don’t want to see that, believe me._

_Whatever._

_If you don’t have anything helpful to say, I’m gonna go._

_About what?_

Dean sat up and rolled his neck as he figured out how to phrase the next text. He didn’t mind describing the situation, but he wanted to keep his own feelings about it private. He didn’t feel ready to share those with anyone, even Sam.

_I must have said something to offend him at the end of the night._

_I said something like, I don’t want to label things_

_I just want to have a good time._

_Something like that? I don’t know, he just stormed off._

_He probably misinterpreted things._

_Oh. Uh. Okay._

_Not gonna lie_

_However you meant that_

_It comes off a little…fuckboyish._

_Is that a word? It should be._

Dean stared up at the clouds. A wedge of geese passed overhead, returning north.

_You haven’t talked to him about it yet, have you._

_No, I was at the market all day and just got home._

_I should probably go in. He’s probably wondering why I’m outside still._

_Just see where his head’s at._

_You’re both capable of an adult conversation._

_Well, he is, at least._

_Bitch._

_See you tomorrow, Sammy._

_And if you breathe one word of this to Cass, you’re dead._

_😉_

Dean scrambled up and wound his way to the front door, taking every opportunity to stop and examine the vegetation. Some of the shrubs were getting unruly and weeds were cropping up in the flower beds. The yard always got like this in the week before the landscapers’ monthly visit.

The house was quiet when Dean got in. Maybe Castiel was doing yoga on the deck again. Were they still going to do that together, or would it be too weird now?

“Cass?” Dean shook off his second boot.

No answer.

Dean emptied his lunchbox in the kitchen, then crossed the house to the library. Castiel’s laptop stood open on the table, but its owner was missing. Dean walked to one of the French doors and peered out. He smiled when he spied Castiel reading on one of the deck chairs.

Dean cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and opened the door. He decided to cut the tension with humor.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Castiel smiled. It was a good attempt, but Dean was familiar enough with him by now to know there was some unease there.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Good book?”

“It’s fine. Familiar argument about French national identity. Workmanlike prose.” Castiel lay the book face-down over his lap. “How was the farmer’s market?”

“Good sales. Really helps when the weather’s nice like this.”

Castiel smiled again, no more relaxed this time. They looked away from each other at the same moment.

“Are you going to join me?” Castiel said. “Or keep standing there?”

“I’d love to join you.” Dean rubbed his cheek. “Maybe I could make us a drink before we talk?”

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Castiel said evenly, looking straight ahead. “Considering.”

“Considering?”

“I’m sure you’re angry with me for what I made happen last night.”

“Angry?”

“It just felt so nice in the moment. Being that close to you. It felt magical.” Castiel twitched his hands together above the book. “Maybe it was the wine and whiskey, maybe—anyway, I got caught up in the moment and forgot who you and I are. That we can never….”

“What?”

Castiel just shrugged. He wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry for how my body reacted,” Castiel said, his voice tortured. “When I realized—anyway, I hope you can forgive me. If not, I’m leaving tomorrow anyway.”

Dean’s hands started to shake. He actually felt furious, but not for the reason Castiel thought he would.

“I know I crossed a line.” Castiel finally glanced up at him, his eyes rimmed in damp red. “If it’s possible, I hope we can just go back to the way things were before.”

Dean had spent most of the day thinking through how he’d approach this conversation, but he’d devoted comparatively little consideration to what Castiel would say. It was baffling that he’d blame himself when Dean had been the one to make a move—an ambiguous, tipsy move, but something beyond harmless flirting nonetheless. And yet here he was, begging Dean not to hate him. Dean didn’t think of himself as a violent guy, but right now he wanted to find all the people who’d taught Castiel to value himself so little and punch the lights out of them.

“Please say something, Dean.”

Dean’s head felt white-hot, incoherent. He didn’t know how to both dispel Castiel’s doubts and clarify his own feelings to him, as incipient and confusing as they were in his own mind. He wasn’t even sure confessing an attraction to Castiel right now would be appropriate, given how distraught he seemed. This wasn’t the moment; Dean knew that much. He squatted down on his haunches so he was at Castiel’s eye level and took his hand.

“I’m not angry with you, Cass. And if what you want is for us to just, I don’t know, act normal? That’s what we’ll do. Whatever you want.”

It seemed like all the breath left Castiel’s chest. He shut his eyes.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“Don’t thank me. There’s nothing to thank. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

Castiel sniffed and shook his head. “You’re a kind person, Dean. I’m lucky to have you for a friend.”

“I’m just a boring farmer with a house that’s too big for him. I’m the lucky one.” Dean rose to his feet, pulling Castiel up with him. The book tumbled to the deck and clapped shut. “Can we have that drink now?”

Castiel laughed. Dean could see, could feel from where their hands were still joined, his anxiety melting away.

“Sounds good. I could use one.”

“You’re telling me.” Dean let him go, then leaned down to pick up his book for him. “ _Comparative Perspectives on French Nationhood_. Sounds like a beach read.”

“Well, it would be for me.”

Dean placed one of his hands on Castiel’s back and opened the door to the house with the other one.

“I remember going to the beach with my brothers when we were younger,” Castiel said, once they were inside. “Michael and Luke in their wetsuits, carrying their longboards—they wanted to be surfers in Maine, so ridiculous. They were unbelievably competitive about it, too.”

Dean laughed. They’d reached the bar cart, and he was trying to figure out which cocktail to make.

“Rafe would swim the shallows, but swear he’d gone out farther than all the rest of us. And Gabe spent the entire day bothering girls.”

Dean rubbed between Castiel’s shoulder blades. “And you?”

“I brought my book and read. You reminded me of that when you called this a beach read.”

“I can imagine that. Young nerdy Cass with his book. No fucks to give about the beautiful women around him.”

Castiel frowned at him in the mirror above the bar cart. “You think I’m nerdy?”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Right,” he said skeptically.

“You’re a hot nerd.” Dean grinned. “Is that better?”

“It’s a start. What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Tequila.” Dean hefted the bottle. “It’s a warm day, so I thought I’d make a pitcher of ranch water.”

Castiel tilted his head.

“It’s a Texas thing. Some of my extended family lives there. Tequila, mineral water, lime juice.”

“Refreshing.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Dean nudged Castiel towards the kitchen. “I feel like I was sweating all day, even under the tent.”

Castiel slid onto one of the stools. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You don’t like my musk?”

“I didn’t say _that_.” Castiel thumbed the label of the tequila bottle and winked.

“Hand me those limes next to you,” Dean said. “Three of them.”

Dean sliced one of the limes into thin slices, then juiced the other two. He poured tequila and mineral water over a tall pitcher of ice and limes while Castiel told him about his day. Though he didn’t say so directly, Dean got the sense that he’d spent more time brooding over his imagined transgression than actually getting work done on his dissertation. Maybe it was naïve, but Dean hoped, as they touched glasses, that a quick return to normality between them would ease Castiel into being prepared to hear what he had to say.

It was ironic, he thought. That the script had flipped at the last minute; that he was the one wondering whether Castiel was ready.

“It’ll be hard to go back to my empty apartment after this,” Castiel said. “My normal delivery places are good, but none of them have a patch on you.”

Dean walked back from the larder with an armful of potatoes, dropping them next to the sink before answering.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Dean glanced over his shoulder. “Go back to DC, I mean. You can stay longer.”

“I wish I could. I have a meeting with my supervisor on Tuesday. She’s flying out the next day, so it can’t be rescheduled.”

“Oh.”

“On the bright side, she’ll be overseas for the entire summer, so all my communication with her will be virtual. Meaning I could theoretically be anywhere.”

Dean grinned. “Theoretically.”

Castiel hummed, cautious but hopeful. His glass tinkled. Dean finished washing the potatoes and turned around while drying his hands.

“So, when are you coming back? The next week?”

He thinned his lips. “Hmm, no. I’m going up to Maine on Thursday for nine days. It’s an engagement I can’t break, I’m afraid.”

“Huh.” Dean sipped his ranch water. “Family stuff?”

Castiel nodded. His eyes were distant, peering through Dean’s chest at something that maybe even he didn’t see clearly. There was something different there from when he normally talked about his family—sadness, still, but leavened with something like hope or joy.

“Once I get back, though—” Castiel rested his chin on his palm and smiled, seeing him again. “I’d love to return with Sam the next time he drives out.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Dean sighed. “Man, it’s going to feel empty around here with you gone.”

“Your viewers won’t be pleased.”

“Definitely not. Have you seen the comments recently? I think they’re watching more for you than me.”

“Then they don’t have very good taste. In more ways than one.” He moved to the tripod. “Are we almost ready?”

“Hmm, yeah. It’s one of the simplest recipes yet, so there’s pretty much no prep to speak of.”

After a few seconds, Castiel gave him the signal.

“Hey everybody. Uh, today we’re making something that’s a real timesaver. Colcannon!”

“What cannon?”

“Ah. Colcannon’s great. It’s an Irish dish that’s basically mashed potatoes with leafy greens. Most of the time, it’s made with cabbage or kale. A few other countries, like the Netherlands, have similar dishes.”

Castiel shrugged. “What’s so great about it?”

“I’m glad you asked. I like it because it’s two dishes in one. A starch and a vegetable. That means I can serve a complete meal with only two dishes—colcannon and some sort of protein.” Dean waved a box of imitation chicken nuggets. “Today, it’s these. Cass, you like these, right?”

“I’m sure I do. I love cruelty-free white meat.”

Dean smirked. “I thought as much. Uh, let’s get started. Like with most stuff I do, there’s a little twist to this recipe. A spicy twist. Hope you’re ready.”

The video was a short one; most of the cooking time was taken up by the boiling of the potatoes. They spent more of the half-hour leaning against the island with their glasses of ranch water than talking to the camera.

“I’ll edit this one for you,” Castiel said, once they’d sat down to eat. “If you want.”

“Sure. I like all those little—” Dean swirled his fork in the air. “Animations and comments you do at the corner of the screen.”

“I’m glad you appreciate my sense of humor.”

“Yeah. So, um.” Dean served himself a half-scoop more colcannon. “Did you think of what you want to do tonight?”

“Oh. No, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. We can just watch something. Or whatever.”

Castiel started to cut one of his nuggets into smaller and smaller pieces. Dean watched his progress with concern.

“I spent most of the day thinking about—about what we talked about. I forgot.”

“Like I said, it’s alright. That, and—well, everything.”

Castiel, finally, resumed eating. Dean didn’t trouble him for the rest of the meal. After they cleaned up, Dean refilled their glasses with the last of the ranch water and set them down on the coffee table. He turned on Netflix and, while he waited for Castiel to finish up some loose ends with his work for the day, opened the living room’s French doors to the cool evening air. The dusk was brightest over the ridge to the southwest, and Dean thought about the night with the fireworks a little more than a week ago. It felt like the entire world had changed since then.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Dean had to work the next day. He always did some work on Sundays, since the market took up his Saturdays and it wasn’t good to regularly leave the berries unmonitored for two days in a row. Instead of returning for lunch, he packed one to take with him in the morning and returned home an hour earlier than usual, getting back just before five.

He’d hoped to be greeted by Castiel in one of his poses when he drove through the gate, but the deck was empty. He washed up and began his search of the house.

He rapped softly on the library door. “Cass?”

Not only was Castiel not there, but his computer and all his books and papers were absent, as well.

Dean checked the deck again, as if looking there a second time would make him appear. Then, he jogged up the staircase and called his name.

“Cass?”

“In here,” Castiel said.

Dean made his way to his old room. Castiel stood just inside the doorway in a salmon T-shirt and white chino shorts; his suitcase was spread open on the ground, mostly filled with clothes and books by now. Only a few items remained loose: dress shoes in a clear plastic bag; a bulging toiletries case; a thin volume with a chocolate-brown cover and golden filigree, next to the pillows.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel rolled up a sweater and shoved it into the corner of the suitcase. “How was your day?”

“Not bad. Wish I didn’t have to work, but—”

“I understand,” Castiel said, though his tone was less understanding and more peremptory.

“How about you? Did the writing go any better than yesterday?”

Castiel winced. He tried to hide it by turning away and picking up the last article of clothing to be folded.

“A bit better.”

“I was, uh—” Dean rubbed his neck. “I was thinking we could do that yoga, like you said. Sam won’t be here for another half an hour, probably.”

Castiel looked down at his bags.

“Next time,” he said.

“Okay.” Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course.” Castiel threw him a weak smile. “Don’t worry about me, Dean. I’m fine.”

He wasn’t, obviously, and Dean almost felt insulted that Castiel thought he wouldn’t notice. It was apparent, by this point, that he had as many walls around his heart as Dean. Maybe more. He wasn’t as good at pretending as he thought he was.

“What’s this?” Dean said. He sat down on the bed and picked up the brown and gold book.

“That’s _The Prophet_ , by Kahlil Gibran. A fellow Bostoner. It’s my favorite book.”

Dean turned it over and read the back cover. The dust jacket was worn and frayed at the corners, and he thought he could see where Castiel’s hands had held it up to the light over the years.

“The one you quoted from,” Dean murmured. “That first night.”

“Yeah.”

Castiel zipped up his suitcase and moved to the side of the bed. He sat down next to Dean, and the mattress dipped between them.

“I like to read a little from it before going to sleep. Sometimes when I wake up. Not every day. Most days, though.”

“What’s it about?”

He gave a wistful sigh. “That’s a hard question to answer. I guess I’d say it’s about everything.”

Dean nodded. Castiel had said it with enough earnestness to negate any skepticism he felt about such a slim volume living up to that big a claim. He flipped it over again and handed it to Castiel.

“Will you read me some of it?”

“You can read it.” Castiel pushed the book back to him. “I’ll leave it here.”

“No, I—I want to hear you read it.”

He took the book gingerly, spreading its pages as if seeing them for the first time. The warm breeze tickled one of the licks of hair that drooped over his forehead.

“What do you want to hear about? Like I said, it touches on everything, so I can read a passage that relates to any subject you can think of.”

Dean fidgeted on the bed, closing the gap between them by a fraction of an inch. Castiel’s eyes flicked down for a split-second.

“Read me your favorite part,” Dean said.

Castiel smiled at the pages. He had those shy dimples again.

“The book starts with a ship coming in. The prophet’s been living abroad for twelve years, and he’s finally getting to go home to the island he’s from. But the people there don’t want him to leave. At the very least, they want him to impart some wisdom before he goes. Something to remember him by.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean nodded along.

“Different members of the community ask him questions, and he answers as best he can. The first answer is actually my favorite.” Castiel pressed the page down, glanced at Dean, quickly looked away. His leg was shaking, vibrating the bedframe almost imperceptibly, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to stop.

“‘Then said Almitra,’” Castiel began. “‘Speak to us of Love.’”

Though he’d taken one seconds before, he paused and drew in another breath. Dean gave him a reassuring smile. Out of all the subjects in a book about everything, of course Castiel’s favorite would be love. And of course he’d share it with him on their last day together, sitting together on Dean’s old bed with the breeze through the window smelling like dry sunlight and sweet grass. He had an image in his mind of the orrery at the corner of his junior physics classroom: two planets separated by the vast empty of space when first set in motion, preordained to align in this moment. Maybe he’d tell Castiel about it once he was done reading, just to see whether that image made any sense to him.

Dean scooted closer. He pretended that he was trying to see the words on the page.

“‘And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:’” Castiel cleared his throat; his right hand joined his left leg in its shaking. “‘When love beckons to you, follow him. Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you—’” Castiel’s voice faltered, and he tried the line again. “‘And when his wings enfold you, yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.’”

“Pinions?”

“They’re the outermost flight feathers on the wings of a bird.” Castiel painted thin stripes through the air with his index finger, tracing an invisible pair of wings.

“Or an angel?”

Castiel shrugged. “I suppose. Though the Bible only refers to a few types of angels as having wings. Like the six-winged seraphs.”

“Huh.”

“Now that you mention it, I guess it makes more sense for an angel to be hiding a sword in his wings than a bird.”

Castiel’s leg finally mellowed, and Dean took it as a sign to narrow the distance between them to almost nothing. Castiel pulled his arm closer to his body to make room for him.

“Why? I mean, aside from the obvious.”

“Well, in the Bible, angels can be quite fierce. Soldiers. Particularly in Revelation.” Castiel rubbed the page. “Whether bird or angel, the point here is that being in love hurts sometimes. And it should, because it changes us.”

Dean leaned into him, nearly resting his head on his shoulder.

“Is there more?”

“There…is. Would you like to read it now?”

“No. I want to hear your voice.”

“Okay.” He gripped his knee with one hand and flattened the book with the other. “‘And when he speaks to you, believe in him, though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.’”

Dean chuckled. “I know all about that.”

Castiel hummed a note of agreement, or maybe sympathy. His fingers flexed on his knee.

“‘For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.’”

He let out a long breath and closed _The Prophet_.

“We better stop there, Dean.”

“So,” Dean said. “Let me sum that up in terms that make sense to me, just to make sure I’m getting all this.”

“Okay,” Castiel said apprehensively.

“Let’s say I’m that tree. A berry tree, probably. And you’re the angel with a sword who falls into my life one day and wraps me in his wings. You caress my branches; you shake my roots. You’re my growth and my pruning. Do I have this right so far?”

Castiel sighed. “Dean.”

“So—so what he’s saying is that love changes you. But only if you—I—let it.”

Castiel shook his head.

“No? What’d I get wrong?”

“You didn’t get anything wrong, Dean.”

“Then…what?”

Dean swallowed. A sharp wind moved down the valley and through the oak trees outside the window. There was a quiet explosion of sound from the leaves, like hundreds of tiny birds taking flight.

“Dean,” Castiel began, his voice heavy with misery. “This—this thing we do. This flirting thing. I know I started it; I know I said it means nothing. Maybe, at some point, that was the truth.”

He paused, though not to gauge Dean’s reaction. He couldn’t even raise his eyes to him.

“I know I said that I wanted things to go back to normal. But now I don’t think I can handle even that.”

Dean shifted on the bed, turning more of his body towards him.

“What does that mean?”

“Dean, I wanted to be a true friend to you. In spite of all my banter, I didn’t have any ulterior motives. But—” he wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his T-shirt, choking out a soft, breathy sob as he did so. “But I’m falling for you, Dean. Further and faster than for any man in my entire life. And the closer we get, the more I fall for you. And I—I know you can’t reciprocate that, and I’m sorry. But I can’t—”

Dean had heard enough. He leaned forward, conquering the last few inches of space between them, and kissed him. _The Prophet_ slipped from Castiel's hand and tumbled to the carpet. The rustling of the leaves abated, leaving the air to stunned, watchful silence.

A sharp intake of breath through his nose; a small, startled gasp into Dean’s lips; the violent thumping of his pulse where Dean’s thumb stroked along his neck. Joined like this to Castiel, Dean felt like he was sharing every one of his body’s sensations, living and reliving each fraction of a second as it passed into infinity. He hoped—maybe, for the first time in his life, prayed—that Castiel could feel him in the same way.

Another moment passed, and the taut control Castiel held over his muscles yielded to Dean like a leaf collapsing under the weight of too much rain. He gathered a fistful of Dean’s shirt with one hand and pawed at the crown of his head with the other. His mouth trembled, then finally broke away.

“Dean,” he whispered, his voice even hoarser than usual. “What are you—we’re—I don’t understand.”

Dean shivered. His head was nodding vaguely, involuntarily, with how hard his heart was beating, struggling to send fresh blood to his overwhelmed brain.

“You idiot,” Dean answered. “You gorgeous, brilliant, angel-feathered idiot.”

Castiel blinked. “What?”

“I don’t know how much clearer I can get.” Dean drifted his hand from Castiel’s neck to the center of his chest, where his heart pounded in perfect time with his own. “I’m falling for you just as hard, Cass. Or…maybe you’re falling, and I’m catching you in my branches before you hit the ground.”

Castiel shook his head in disbelief. His hand seized Dean’s wrist.

“Dean. How—”

“Less metaphors,” Dean insisted, yanking Castiel into him. “More kissing.”

They crashed back into the bed with the force of the collision, the springs yelping their protest. Dean’s head hit the pillow and he gasped up at the image before him: Castiel hovering a few inches above, his face surrounded by a halo of afternoon sun. His eyes reflected the limitless blue of the sky outside the window.

“My God,” Castiel murmured. He smoothed back Dean’s hair, brushed his fingertips down his temple and his cheek. “I can’t believe this is happening. You’re perfect, Dean.”

He kissed Dean gently, arcing up to nuzzle their noses together; he returned to his lips, harsher now and full of want. His hips ground down into Dean’s, sweet and slow, and Dean held on feebly. Every muscle in his body felt incapacitated by bliss.

“Cass,” Dean whimpered, once he could breathe again.

Castiel drew back a few inches, his eyes wide and his lips quivering. He pushed himself up with his arms on either side of Dean’s head.

“Are you okay, Dean? Is this—okay?”

Dean crept his hands from Castiel’s waist, up his sides and back, to his shoulders and neck. He cupped his jawline. A tear shook loose from one of Castiel’s eyes, and Dean wiped it away.

“Please say you’re okay,” Castiel pleaded, as Dean dried another of his tears, then a third.

“Not just okay. I feel good, and—and right. Like you were always meant to happen to me and now you finally have.”

Castiel laughed. He rubbed his cheek into Dean’s fingers.

“That’s a little sentimental.”

“I don’t care. I’ve got an angel in my arms; I’m allowed to be a little sentimental.”

“The power of metaphors. I had no idea you liked them so much.”

“Maybe just this one.” Dean kissed Castiel’s forearm. “Maybe just us.”

Dean’s hands moved again. He ran them into Castiel’s hair, tugging gently as he went and grabbing fresh handfuls of it whenever it slipped through his fingers. He reached the tips and started over again. Castiel rolled his neck and hung his head, preening for him.

“Oh, Dean. Your touch is heaven.”

“You kidding? I’ve wanted to get my hands in your hair since the day you got here.”

Castiel gently lowered himself to the bed. He rested his ear on Dean’s heart.

“You can groom me anytime, Dean. Do anything you want with me. There’s nothing I’ll deny you. Nothing in this entire world.”

Before Dean could respond, he heard the faint slam of a car door in the driveway.

“Is that—” Castiel said.

“Sam.”

Castiel rolled off of Dean and scrambled upright at the side of the bed. Dean sat up and stared at the doorway.

“How should we, um.” Castiel smoothed down his shirt.

“Let’s—let’s wait.” Dean hopped to his feet; he shrugged in commiseration. “I need to figure out how to tell Sam. Please?”

“Of course. Dean, if you’re not sure—”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

He leaned in for a soft, desperate kiss at the corner of Castiel’s mouth, a hug with weight behind it. Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut, only opening again with the distant click of the front door and Sam’s airy voice.

“Guys? I’m here!”

“As long as you need,” Castiel said. “I will wait.”

“Dean? Cass?”

“We better—” Dean brushed another tear from Castiel’s eye.

“You go ahead. I need to—bathroom.”

Dean gave a last squeeze to Castiel’s shoulder. He picked up his suitcase and walked to the top of the stairs. Sam was looking up at him from the bottom.

“Hey, I was just about to come looking for you.”

“Sorry, Sammy.” Dean deposited the suitcase by the front door and gave Sam a quick hug. “I was just helping Cass with something.”

Sam wiggled his eyebrows. Dean pretended not to notice.

“Alright, comfort food.” Dean flicked on the kitchen lights. “Let’s get started.”

He had Sam set the table while he peeled the sweet potatoes and sliced them into matchsticks. Castiel wandered down, looking shell-shocked and carrying his laptop bag and backpack, right when Dean was sliding the fries into the oven. If Sam noticed anything amiss—Castiel’s wilder-than-usual hair, the smolder Dean gave him when they passed at the sink—he was too discreet to mention it.

They sat around the kitchen island while they waited for the food—Sam said he’d drunk too much in the last two days, so Dean made the three of them a pot of strong black tea with dried raspberries and orange blossoms. Sam did almost all the talking, which Dean was thankful for.

“One insensitive remark doesn’t have to be a death knell,” Castiel finally piped up. Sam had been bemoaning his tactlessness on his date with Eileen for nearly fifteen minutes by this point.

“You think?”

He shrugged. “It’s up to her. But you shouldn’t underestimate the power of grace. Forgiveness. Sometimes, mistakes form the foundations of our strongest relationships.”

Dean poured more tea into Sam’s empty mug.

“You should listen to him, Sam. He’s taught me a lot this past week.”

Sam snorted. He stirred a few splashes of soy milk into his cup.

“I’d say you’ve taught me just as much.”

Dean smiled and patted Castiel’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t. But I appreciate it.”

“So, you’re not completely sick of Dean yet?” Sam shot Castiel a sly glance. “That must be your secret superpower. Either that, or he was on his best behavior.”

“I’m not sure about any of that.” Castiel looked down at his tea. “But no, I’m not sick of him. I don’t see how anyone ever could be.”

“Finally, someone else with taste in this house.” Dean sprang up, ignoring Sam’s bug eyes. “I better start the mushrooms.”

At dinner, Castiel barely touched the meager amount of food he served himself. Dean fared a little better, finishing off just enough that Sam couldn’t point out that something was up with him.

“Don’t be shy, Cass.” Sam pushed the serving bowls in his direction. “Dean and I’ve already had plenty.”

“Thank you. It’s all delicious.” He picked up a sweet potato fry and crammed it into his mouth halfheartedly. “My appetite just evaporates when I’m anxious.”

Dean frowned. Once Castiel left, he wouldn’t be able to make sure he was eating well. Maybe he’d pack up the leftovers and send them home with him.

“PhD stuff?” Sam said.

“Yes. And—” Castiel glanced at Dean. “Other things.”

Sam, of course, caught that. He smirked down at the table.

“So, what’d you guys do all week? Dean hasn’t really told me much.”

Dean gave him an ominous stare—the kind that promised bodily harm if he revealed anything they’d texted about.

“You’re right, I haven’t.”

Castiel picked at his peas. “We went sightseeing on his day off. And went out to dinner on Friday night. Other than that, we’ve just been enjoying each other’s company.”

“Lots of cooking and Netflix,” Dean added.

“Dean’s two favorite activities. You weren’t bored with that, Cass?”

“No.” He looked at Dean again, longer this time. “With Dean, just a conversation is enough.”

Dean grinned at his empty plate. He felt a blush blooming over his entire face.

“You two.” Sam fluttered his lips. “Talk about an epic bromance. You put most actual couples to shame.”

Castiel fidgeted in Dean’s peripheral vision. Deciding to head the rest of this off at the pass, Dean pushed his chair back and gathered up some of the serving bowls.

“You’re done, right?” he said to Sam.

Sam made a face. “I guess I am.”

“Cass, I’ll put the rest of the food in containers for you. Then you can eat it when you get back to your apartment.”

“I’ll help clean up,” Castiel said.

He followed behind Dean with the bowl of sweet potato fries. Sam’s eyes trailed them all the way to the kitchen door.

“It really was good,” Castiel said, once they were alone beneath the track lights. “Dinner.”

Dean finished assembling the line of tupperwares on the kitchen island. His shoulder and hip brushed into Castiel when he reached for the dish of minted peas.

“It’s okay. I get it.” He risked a kiss to Castiel’s neck. “I just want you to eat.”

“I think once the shock wears off, I’ll be famished.”

In the dining room, Sam cleared his throat and moved his chair around noisily. He finally walked into the kitchen a minute later, pretending to be unaware of his surroundings even then. Dean placed the last of the containers in a brown paper bag, rolled down the top, and deposited it into Castiel’s arms.

“For when you get hungry later, then.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

Castiel walked the bag to the hall and placed it atop his suitcase. Sam motioned excitedly at him as soon as he was out of earshot.

“What’s the deal?” Sam whispered. “Something happened, I can tell.”

As much as he wanted to be annoyed at Sam’s prying, Dean couldn’t help but smile. His joy right now was a flood washing away everything in its path.

“Later,” Dean mumbled. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Sam,” Castiel said. He was lingering in the doorway of the kitchen. “I’m not sure how long you wanted to visit for, but all my things are ready. Just tell me when you need to go.”

“I’m not in a rush. But, uh—” Sam checked his watch. “We probably should leave by eight. I like to be in bed by 10:30.”

“That’s when Cass is just starting his second wind,” Dean said. “Writing, I mean.”

“Well, then perhaps we should just head out after we help Dean clean up.”

“Yeah, okay.” Sam looked from Dean to Castiel, then back again. “I’m just going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Sam vanished into the hallway. Castiel gave Dean a pained look as he joined him at the sink.

“You don’t have to sound so eager to get away from me,” Dean teased.

“You know nothing could be further from the truth.”

Dean tested the temperature of the water. He picked up the mushroom pan and started scrubbing.

“I know.”

“The sooner I leave, the more time you have to look forward to me coming back.” Castiel slid their plates into the dishwasher. “Don’t people say that? I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“It doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Me neither.”

Dean felt Castiel’s hand at his waist. He breathed in the steam from the hot water and closed his eyes.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” Castiel said. “A month ago, I didn’t even know you existed. And now….”

“Now?”

“Now, I can’t imagine the world without you. It feels like I went through 33 years of my life with everything muted and gray and I didn’t even notice. And this week—I’m starting to see color and music in the most mundane things. Not because my life was lacking, but—” Castiel touched his chin to Dean’s shoulder. “Because it was lacking you.”

Dean nudged him with his elbow. “Now who’s being sentimental?”

“I know it’s foolish. I’m struggling to express everything I’m feeling. It’s more—” he shook his head. “It’s just more.”

“It’s not foolish.” Dean placed the last pan in the dishrack and dried his hands. “I know what you mean.”

There was the sound of water flushing through the upstairs pipes. Dean turned to Castiel and kissed him, cupping his ear with his pruny fingers.

“Dean,” Castiel murmured. “What does this mean?”

Dean slid his tongue across his lips; he’d always done that when he was nervous. He knew what Castiel was asking.

“I mean, are you—”

“I’m not completely sure about that yet.” He pieced through Castiel’s hair, smoothing the stray strands back into place. “Is that okay?”

“Of course. Of course it’s okay.” Castiel shivered. “I just want….”

“I know.” Dean kissed his upper lip, then his whole mouth. “I want it too.”

Sam started stomping down the stairs, clearing his throat and coughing as he went. Dean rolled his eyes.

“He’s sweet,” Castiel noted. “Not subtle.”

They’d unwound from each other by the time Sam appeared in the kitchen doorway. He fixed them with a look of pure sympathy.

“Ready to head out, Cass?”

Castiel nodded. Dean walked him to the entryway with his hand at the crest of his back. He hugged Sam first, then him.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Castiel shuddered against him. His only response was a slight motion of his chin, a grasping of his hand on Dean’s back. Sam twitched at the other side of the hallway, somehow looking both pleased and distressed.

Dean carried Castiel’s suitcase to Sam’s trunk; he waved them off. He stood at the top of the driveway until long after Sam’s car had vanished past the last maple tree and down into the valley.

Once he was inside again, he decided to busy himself. He cleaned Crowley’s litterbox; he vacuumed the first floor; he looked through the refrigerator and planned out what he’d cook over the next week. He walked up to Castiel’s room to pull the sheets from the mattress—he’d need fresh ones when he returned, after all. When Dean got to the side of the bed, he drew a deep breath and sat down where he’d been two and a half hours ago, the moment his life changed.

Dean gazed at the portrait of his mother. She was smiling at him; he wanted to think that if she were here right now, she’d still be smiling.

“Mom,” he said, and nothing else. He liked to say hello to her sometimes.

Slowly, carefully, he kicked his feet up, laid his head on the pillow. Everything smelled like him. Dean stared up at the purple twilight and thought about Castiel’s sunlit face above him, his eyes the color of the noonday sky. He drifted off to that.

An hour later, he woke up to his phone vibrating in his jeans pocket.

_Just got home._

_I haven’t put anything away. My bags are at the door still._

_I can’t do anything but think of you._

Dean curled onto his side and typed back.

_Same here._

_I fell asleep in your bed._

_I can still feel you, smell you_

_Taste you._

_Dean_

_You don’t know how close I am to blowing off that meeting_

_Walking out to the street right now with only the clothes on my back_

_Hailing a cab and giving him your address._

_Romantic_ _😍_

_Might set you back a little, though_

_I don’t fucking care._

_God, I want you so bad there’s a physical pain_

_I’ve never had that before._

_Tell me how I’ll get through the next two weeks._

_I’ll be here_ _😙_

_Um…you could watch my videos?_

_We could FaceTime?_

_It’s not enough. Not nearly._

_I know._

_But I don’t want you to take that taxi._

_Go to your meeting, take care of what you need to take care of._

_See your family._

_I’ll be here when you’re done_ _😊_

_Oh, Dean._

_I adore you._

_I’d move heaven and earth to have you in my arms again right now._

_But all I can do is wait._

_We have time._

_I don’t think I’ll ever have enough with you._

_But once I see you again, I’ll make the most of every second._

_For as long as you’ll have me._

_You better mean that._

_Because I don’t see myself ever letting you go._

_It’s a promise._

_My darling berry tree._

_My angel with a sword._

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Mustard Greens Colcannon

_The thing I love about colcannon is that it’s two dishes in one. It’s your starch and your vegetable in one bowl! That means less cooking and less cleanup. You can have it all year, too—I whip some up when I’m too tired to do much else and I think I deserve a big bowl of mashed potatoes._

_Colcannon is usually made with kale or cabbage, but mustard greens are a spicy change-up that I’ve come to prefer over the years. I like to wilt it with a little butter and garlic before adding it to the potatoes, just to limit the amount of moisture that gets added. You want your colcannon starchy and creamy, not waterlogged._

Cook time: 30 minutes

Serves 2

2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, rinsed well

1 bunch mustard greens

½ cup butter

¾ cup milk

1 clove garlic, minced

Salt

Freshly ground black pepper

Fill a large pot halfway with water, add 1 teaspoon salt, and bring to a boil on high heat. Add the potatoes to the water whole and with skins on. They’ll absorb less water this way. Reduce heat to medium high and cook until a fork passes through the potatoes with little resistance, about 30 minutes.*

While the potatoes are boiling, wash the mustard greens and remove the thick parts of the stems. Chop roughly. Heat 1 tablespoon of butter and the minced garlic on medium low in a large frying pan. Once the butter has melted, add the mustard greens and sauté until the greens have wilted and released most of their water, about 5 minutes. Add the milk to the greens and allow to warm through for one minute before removing pan from heat. This will allow the milk to come to temperature before adding it to the potatoes.

Drain and rinse the potatoes with cold water once they’re done. Add to a large bowl—if necessary, allow them to sit on a kitchen towel to dry off beforehand—and mash.** Add the rest of the butter and salt to taste as you’re working. Finally, stir in the mustard greens and milk mixture slowly. Top with some freshly ground black pepper and serve.

*The time varies based on the size of the potatoes, so you should try to boil potatoes of roughly similar size here. Also, if your potatoes are on the smaller side, you’ll want to start checking them for doneness earlier than 30 minutes.

**If you prefer your mashed potatoes without skins, you can use a potato ricer or food mill here. Either tool will both break down the potato for you and remove the skins. I don’t mind skins, so I keep them on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Prophet_ by Kahlil Gibran is in the public domain in the United States (and many other countries). [Project Gutenberg](http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58585) has it available if you’d like to read more from it. It will be reappearing in this work.


	12. Crispy Breaded Tofu and Sweet and Spicy Bean Sprout Salad

Dean heated up the rest of the frozen enchiladas from two weeks ago for Monday’s dinner. He was halfway through his meal, _Heartland_ on the television, when Castiel finally texted him.

 _I’m home_ _😁_

Dean lay his plate on the coffee table and paused the show.

 _I was starting to worry_ _😅_

_Mm, sorry._

_I ran into a group of other PhDs right after I told you I was leaving the office._

_They wanted to grab a late coffee and I didn’t have a good excuse._

_What, I’m not a good excuse?_

_They don’t know you._

_Also, PhD students are the biggest gossips on the planet._

_They don’t need to hear about my berry farmer paramour from across state lines._

_😆 Is that what I am?_

Castiel didn’t respond for a couple minutes. Dean resumed eating his enchiladas.

 _I want to see you_ _😇_

_Can we do that?_

Dean finished chewing, wiped his mouth with his napkin, sipped his water. He brought up FaceTime and pressed the call button.

The first thing he saw when the call went through was a watery ceiling light and a wall-mounted Navajo blanket in bold orange and brown diamonds. After some jostling, Castiel’s face came into the frame.

“Hey, handsome.”

Dean grinned. “Hey, angel.”

Castiel tumbled back into the couch and held the phone above his head.

“Is that what you’re going to call me from now on?”

“Not all the time.” Dean mirrored Castiel’s movement, pushing Crowley off the sofa to do so. “Just when I’m really happy to see you. Or….”

“Or?”

“Or when I’m _really_ happy to see you.” Dean wagged his eyebrows. “You know.”

“I never would’ve guessed someone so irreligious would have such an angel kink.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you wear a costume.” Dean palmed his hair away from his forehead. “How, uh, how was your day? You didn’t really tell me about it earlier.”

“The truth? It was hard. Hard to go back to my normal routine, focus on my research, when I kept thinking about you. Hard to eat my normal order at the Qdoba on campus instead of your cooking.” Castiel shrugged. “Can we just fast forward two years to when we’re already married and living together?”

Dean burst out laughing.

“Too long?” Castiel said. “One year, then.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself.” Dean stuck out his tongue. “Time to get your filter checked, Cass.”

“Hmm. Maybe you’re right. I wouldn’t make a very good housewife.”

Dean shifted on the couch, propping himself up against its corner.

“Something wrong?”

“No, I’m just remembering that I shouldn’t lie down right after eating spicy food. I get heartburn if I do that.”

“What’d you have?”

“Enchiladas.”

“Ah. The first meal you cooked for me.”

Dean smiled, and Castiel shut his eyes. After what felt like more than a minute, he sighed.

“I want to touch you, Dean.”

“I know. Same here.”

“Tell me about your day. I don’t think I asked you.”

“Nothing too interesting. I had to prune back some damaged branches on the oldest section of blueberries. Happened over the winter but I’m only getting to it now.”

“How old?”

“43, 44 years. I remember my dad telling me that he was in high school when he and Henry cleared away that part of the hillside for more blueberries.” Dean ate the last bite of his food. “I think blueberries were just starting to take off as a money crop then.”

“How long do they live for?”

“Half a century if they stay healthy. Maybe a little more.”

Castiel looked off to the side, his eyes moving as if counting something. Dean tipped the rest of his water into his mouth.

“After I finished that, I had to loosen up the mulch from last fall and apply fresh pine needles. Almost out of those, but there’re plenty of wood chips in the horse barn.”

“Huh. I think I understood at least half of that.”

Dean chuckled. “Hey, you feel like showing me your apartment?”

“If you want.”

“I want to see where you live. Then I can imagine you there.”

Castiel rolled off the sofa and stretched. The camera shook wildly, and Dean saw fleeting images of a coffee table strewn with books and papers; a tall, thin cabinet topped with figurines; a swooping corner plant with leaves like water lilies.

“Alright. Well, this is the living room.” Castiel panned the camera around. “I don’t actually spend too much time here. Most of the time when I’m home, I’m either sleeping or in my office. I won’t bother showing you the view from the front window, since you already know what my street looks like.”

Dean nodded.

“Uh, that’s the entryway. Nothing there, really.” Castiel started walking. “I’ll show you the dining room.”

“Wait, what’s that?”

“What?”

“Those little things.” Dean pointed up and to the left. “On top of that cabinet.”

“Oh. They’re figurines I picked up while traveling.” Castiel waggled a wooden giraffe at the camera. “Animals, mostly, though I have some little people as well.”

“Cool.”

“I bought some from local artisans. Others were gifts from people I met. Those are special. They’re all memories, though.” Castiel carefully returned the giraffe to its perch. “Uh, this is just the dining room. I only have a small table. It’s only me.”

“No housemates?”

“No,” he said. Dean couldn’t tell whether he sounded evasive or if he was imagining things.

“Me neither,” Dean quipped. “Oh, is this the kitchen?”

“It is.” Castiel reached for a switch, casting light over a lustrous granite island, a gunmetal-grey refrigerator, a spotless gas range. Except for a lonely cactus on the windowsill, the countertops were completely empty.

“No kitchen should be that clean,” Dean said in consternation. “I feel like I’m looking at one of those model setups at the home and garden store.”

“Feel free to come down here and dirty it up.” Castiel walked to the back door. “Uh, I have a little garden out there. A couple chairs, some flowers. It’s too dark to see much now, though.” He twisted around and pointed to a set of stairs. “That’s the basement. My friend Yuri lives there. We share the laundry room.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have housemates?”

“I don’t. It’s a separate apartment. Although—” Castiel turned off the kitchen light behind him. “He tends to invite himself up here around the start of the week to test out his routine. Wednesday’s open mic night at the improv comedy club.”

“He’s a comedian?”

“I’m sure he thinks so. He’s doing a master’s in public health at GW. He probably should just stick to that.” Castiel started ascending the staircase.

“Ouch.”

“That was mean of me. To be fair, he’s the funniest person who lives at this address.” Castiel leapt up the last step and illuminated the first door in the hallway. “My office.”

Dean pursed his lips as Castiel swept the camera from wall to wall.

“Damn. That’s a lot of books.”

“I like big books and I cannot lie.”

Dean snorted.

“Sorry. Talking about Yuri makes me want to whip out corny puns.” Castiel moved to the next doorway and pointed. “Bathroom. And the last door….”

Castiel fiddled somewhere out of frame in the half-darkness. A rich yellow glow spilled over a high, all-white bed, a deep bay window filled with throw pillows, a dresser in flowing lines with brass handles.

“My bedroom. Sorry it’s messy. I kind of just toss my clothes on the ground when I get dressed and pick them up whenever I feel like it.”

“It’s okay.” Dean walked his dishes to the kitchen. “Nice place.”

There was a small squeaking sound, then the swaying of the camera before it refocused on Castiel’s face with the bedsheets behind him. He let out a sigh.

“Tired?” Dean said.

“I’m okay. It feels wrong to complain when you work so much harder than me.”

“Just because I use my body instead of my brain—” Dean started the dishwasher. “That doesn’t mean I work harder.”

Castiel smiled. “Well, then I guess I am tired. But I’ll feel better once my dinner arrives.”

Dean leaned against the kitchen counter and smiled back.

“I wish I were next to you on that bed right now.”

“Oh yeah?” Castiel winked. “What would you do?”

“Well, first thing.” Dean cleared his throat. “I’d cancel your delivery order and make you a home-cooked meal.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Tease.”

“I didn’t get to what comes after yet.”

“Let me guess. Netflix?”

“You know me so well already.”

Castiel laughed. He opened his mouth to say something, but then his eyes darted to the left at a muffled shout.

“Yeah!” Castiel sat up and rubbed his cheek. “Be there in a minute.”

“Who’s that?”

“It’s Yuri. We ordered pizza and he’s going to practice his routine while we’re eating.”

Dean pressed his lips together.

“Well, guess I can’t compete with that.”

“We do it every week almost. Sorry, I didn’t think.” Castiel tilted his head. “Are you pouting?”

“No, no. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“Ah.” Castiel glanced at his bedroom door, then back to his phone. “So, I’m wondering.”

“Hmm?”

“The things we did yesterday. And—and said.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you still….” Castiel swallowed. “Do you regret any of it?”

Dean furrowed his brow.

“Because it was pretty intense. And I know you’re kind of still figuring things out, so I don’t want to rush you.”

“Why’re you saying this?”

“Just the—cooking and Netflix stuff. If you’re uncomfortable with—with talking about….”

“Sex?”

“Yeah.” Castiel exhaled. “Sorry, this is awkward.”

“I was joking, Cass. That’s all it was.”

He tilted his head again.

“What?”

“I tend to think there’s a little truth behind every joke.”

Dean sighed. “You’ll give yourself a headache overthinking everything like this.”

“You’re probably right. I do that, it’s true.” Castiel looked up at his door. “Yeah, I’m just talking to someone. I’ll be right down.”

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. Finally, Castiel turned back to his phone. He scratched his head.

“Yuri usually stays for a couple hours. I’d feel bad rushing him since I wasn’t here last week.”

“Alright. Well, I’ll probably head to bed soon anyway.”

Castiel gave a pained look.

“I get the feeling I said the wrong thing. Did I?”

Dean’s shoulders sagged. “It’s okay, Cass.”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I know.” Dean smiled weakly. “Talk more tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I should be finishing around the same time.”

“Okay. Hope the comedy isn’t too bad.”

Castiel pinched his nose. “Pray for me.”

They said goodnight, and Dean watched the end call screen for a while after. He closed his eyes and squeezed his forehead. The churning of the dishwasher seemed to increase in volume with each passing second. He felt unsteady, ungrounded, as if the water could burst forth and sweep him away at any moment.

Minutes went by. Finally, he pushed himself up, doused all the house’s lights, and went to bed.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Within Castiel’s first two words the next day, Dean could tell that something was wrong. His voice was heavy and strained, as if every syllable were a burden.

“It’s not you,” Castiel said, once Dean asked. “It’s a few different things, but none of them is you.”

Dean poured the whiskey for his hot toddy. “Tell me.”

“Ugh.” Castiel flipped onto his side. “Well, I woke up to some drama in the group chat. That’s how my day started off.”

“Group chat?”

“For DC-area progressive activism. It’s how we organize. I’m actually in a few, but the drama happened in the immigration one.”

Dean stirred his glass and hummed in acknowledgement.

“Apparently there was some kind of misunderstanding over whom I’d delegated my duties to while I was away. Maybe I could’ve been clearer, I don’t know. Anyway, multiple people ended up butting heads over who got to decide certain details—passive-aggressively, of course. And no one bothered contacting me. In the end, none of them did the work. I was wondering why I didn’t see much on social media about this week’s protest.”

“Who dropped the ball?”

“I don’t know. The ball was dropped; let’s leave it at that.” Castiel rubbed his eyes. “Now they’re asking me if I can coordinate things for this week and next while I’m out of town.”

“From Maine?”

“Yeah. It’s absurd, of course. I take this trip every year; everyone knows about it way in advance.”

Dean sipped his drink as he walked to the living room.

“Tell them to pound sand, Cass.”

“I don’t know. It’s not just about me. I also have to think about the people we’re demonstrating for. We can’t let them down.”

“Exactly.” Dean kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “You won’t do as good of a job if you’re not there. Someone else can do it.”

Castiel shrugged, clearly unconvinced. “Maybe. There’s something else, too. Obviously, everyone in the group follows my social media, so they all know where I’ve been. One of them pointedly asked me about your labor practices. Clear implications there.”

Dean drank his cocktail and waited for Castiel to say more.

“I got defensive and snapped at her. I felt bad. I suppose I felt cornered. I didn’t want to be a hypocrite, yet I couldn’t stand for her attacking you.”

“I can fight my own battles, Cass. I don’t need you to defend me.”

“I know you can. I just….” Castiel sat up and took a deep breath. “Anyway, that got my day off to an irritating start. And then I had to go up to campus for my meeting with my supervisor not too long afterward.”

“How’d that go?”

“I wanted her advice on how to deal with some deprecated data. She didn’t have many ideas, nor did she seem to care much. We talked about rearranging the subsections in the case studies, but that would involve rewriting significant portions of them, and I get the sense that she just expects me to come up with that extra time out of thin air.” Castiel waved his hand lazily. “The details don’t matter. She just wasn’t very helpful and seemed distracted. I guess she was trying to get through a lot of students today.”

“Because she’s booking it tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Then I worked in my office until 7. Made really poor progress. I think I actually had a negative word count because of editing? Oh, and someone microwaved fish in the department kitchen, which of course went on to permeate every square inch of the building for the rest of the day. So, yeah. And now I’m home.”

Castiel fell back into the couch and exhaled.

“Poor baby,” Dean said, finishing off his drink.

“Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not.” Dean put down his glass. “I’m sympathizing.”

“Oh. I thought you were mocking me. Luke used to always say that when I got mad at something growing up.”

“Since you’re the youngest?”

“Since I’m the baby of the family, yeah. Come to think of it, he still says it now.”

“Huh.” Dean reclined against one of the couch’s arms and stretched his legs to the other one. “Can I ask you something, Cass?”

“Uh-oh. It must be serious if you’re asking to ask it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m just wondering, what made you want to do your PhD? Because it seems like you don’t really like it that much.”

Castiel laughed. “You’re right. Although I don’t think many people enjoy their PhD while they’re doing it. It’s kind of meant to break your spirit.” He stroked his chin. “I’m interested in the topic, of course, but I’d be lying if I said that’s the only reason. Or even the main one. I probably would’ve been content working in jobs helping people for the rest of my life.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He hesitated for a moment.

“My family. They—there were reasons I needed to do something more. I couldn’t just keep drifting through life.”

“I don’t get it. What was wrong with what you were doing?”

“Michael’s a corporate executive, Luke’s a research scientist, Rafe’s an attorney, and Gabe’s a psychiatrist. ‘Homeless shelter manager’ or ‘down east winterizer’ doesn’t really stack up next to that.”

“Who says?”

Castiel stroked his chin again. “I appreciate what you’re saying, but…it doesn’t really matter now, does it? I’m already almost six years into my PhD. Even if I could’ve done things differently back then, I can’t turn back time.”

“Still. You should do what makes you happy. Screw your family.”

Castiel smirked.

“What?”

“Sorry, Dean. It’s just funny to hear you of all people say that.”

Dean frowned at Castiel’s face on the screen.

“What I mean is, aren’t we exactly the same on this score? You became a farmer because that’s what your father expected of you. And because that’s how you could shelter Sam from him.”

“That’s—that’s not—” Dean swallowed. “We were talking about you, not me.”

“I know.” Castiel tilted his head apologetically. “Can I ask _you_ something, then?”

“I guess. You’re really fucking good at this, you know. Turning things back around on me.”

“Well, I do study politics.” Castiel looked up and to the right, seeming to gather his thoughts. “Did you ever want to do anything else? Other than be a farmer?”

“Maybe. No point in ever thinking too much about it, though. Not like I had a choice.”

“What if you did?”

Dean slid his tongue over his lips. “Come again?”

“Let’s pretend you had a choice. Have a choice. You could do anything you want. Would you stay as you are? Keep on doing what your daddy expected of you?”

“I don’t know. That just seems like a pointless question.”

Castiel grimaced. “Is that why you never bothered completing high school?”

Dean clenched his jaw. The hand holding his phone trembled, and he nearly dropped it.

“You’re intelligent, Dean. A hard worker, obviously. Curious about the world. I think you could’ve not just received a diploma, but graduated at or near the top of your class. I think you didn’t see a point in trying because your father only ever saw you as an extension of himself. Maybe you saw yourself the same way.”

“I thought your brother was the psychiatrist,” Dean said acidly.

“Dean—”

“Look, I don’t need you trashing my dad. You didn’t even know him. He wasn’t perfect, but things could’ve turned out a hell of a lot worse for me and Sam. And he didn’t have an easy life himself.”

“I’m not attacking him.” Castiel shook his head. “I’m not, Dean. I’m talking about you, not your father. You’re the one I care about.”

Dean closed his eyes. His breaths were coming out in short, quick bursts.

“I’ve angered you. I’m sorry. I should’ve been more tactful.”

“Tact isn’t your strong point.”

“Dean.”

“Let’s—” Dean stood up and carried his glass to the sink. “I had a long day. Let’s just talk tomorrow.”

“I don’t think we should leave things here. We should talk through what you’re feeling.”

“Please,” Dean said, through gritted teeth. “Stop pushing, Cass. Just stop.”

After a long time, Castiel gave a sigh of acquiescence.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“I know how you meant it. And…that’s all I have to say about it right now. Let’s just forget it.”

Castiel nodded. “I’ll let you bring it up again, then. If and when you want to.”

Dean gave him a wan, but genuine, smile. They talked about tomorrow while Dean turned off the house’s lights. He said goodnight to Castiel at the top of the stairs, sharing a view of the glow over the city before blowing a kiss to the camera and hanging up.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

_Morning, handsome_ _💋_

_Well, technically afternoon now._

Dean grinned and turned off the engine. He’d just finished eating lunch and was back at the blueberry fields, but extending his break by a few minutes couldn’t hurt.

_Hey, I was just thinking about you._

_😘 Oh yeah?_

_In the middle of the day?_

_Yeah, I was looking at my dirty clothes in the hamper and thinking that I had to do my own laundry._

_😇_

_😞_

_You sure know how to make a guy feel special._

_I know you like my jokes._

_I do._

_I was thinking about you too just now; that’s why I texted._

_Mine was actually nice, though._

_Aw._

_Tell me, angel._

_I’m sorry_ _😙_

_I was listening to a sixties soul playlist on Spotify while drinking my first cup of coffee_

_Aretha starts singing_

_“Looking out on the morning rain….”_

_Before I know it, I’m spinning around the kitchen in my bathrobe_

_Singing and thinking about the last time we danced_ _❤_

 _Aw_ _❤_

_Do I make you feel like a natural woman, Cass?_

_Not literally._

_It’s a song about the transfigurative power of love_

_How loving that special person can help you find meaning in your life where it was hard to before._

_Plus, it’s just fun to belt out._

_I’m sure my neighbors would agree._

_At least they don’t have to hear my singing_ _😆_

_You’ve said that before._

_You can’t be that bad._

_I can, believe me._

_It’s my guaranteed way to torture Sam. That’s how I know._

_Can I hear it tonight?_

_I want to judge for myself_ _😂_

_If you really want._

_You definitely won’t think I’m perfect anymore_ _😄_

_I better get back to the berries now, angel._

That night, while Castiel packed his suitcase, Dean put Bob Seger’s _Beautiful Loser_ on the record player and sang the entirety of “Nutbush City Limits” into his phone, complete with air guitar and a theatrical pratfall into the living room sofa. Castiel smiled the whole way through, trying to nod along despite clearly not knowing the words or even the melody. Dean said he’d make him a classic rock playlist for the plane, announcing with brio each and every song he added as Castiel ate his delivery sushi dinner.

Yuri’s performance at the comedy club was at 10:30, so Castiel said goodnight to Dean before leaving. At almost the same moment, both of them stated the number of days left until next Sunday. Castiel converted it into hours, then minutes, using his phone’s calculator. He told Dean to dream of him.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

_Just landed in Portland._

_I’m waiting at baggage claim._

_There’s a two-hour drive after that, then family stuff until dinner_

_Probably won’t be able to call until late._

_What time do you think?_

_10 would be a safe bet._

_Might be a little earlier or later._

_I don’t think every day will be like this._

_It’s okay._

_I understand. It’s family._

_You’re amazing_ _😊_

_Talk to you tonight._

Dean had already edited and posted his recipe—an artichoke, porcini, and pea greens pizza drizzled with olive oil—by the time his phone lit up with Castiel’s call. He’d spent the rest of the evening after dinner replying to comments on his blog and YouTube channel, which were quickly becoming unmanageable.

“The dark side of food blog fame no one tells you about,” Castiel said.

Dean fluttered his lips. “I’m probably not even in the top thousand. No idea how the big ones keep up.”

“Well, I’m guessing most of them don’t work 80-hour weeks at their day job.”

“Hmm.” Dean switched off his desk’s architect lamp and started walking to his bedroom. “How was your day, Cass?”

“Tiring. I’m tired.” The phone swayed, then refocused, as Castiel clambered into a wide bed with a headboard that didn’t seem to end. “Seeing you is a tonic, though. I watched your video on the way back to the hotel. It put such a smile on my face.”

“Hotel? I thought you were back home.”

“It’s complicated.” Castiel waved dismissively. “Anyway, I was disappointed that you didn’t toss the pizza dough into the air. I was waiting for it the entire time.”

“Ah, I just didn’t want to drop it and have to reshoot everything. You know how nervous I get when I’m filming.”

Dean set his phone down against his pillow, unbuckled his belt, and pushed down his jeans. He stepped out of them and tossed them in the general direction of his laundry basket.

“Oh.” Castiel shifted under the sheets. “You putting on a show for me, handsome?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dean thumbed the hem of his black T-shirt. “I’m just innocently getting ready for bed.”

“Ah. Right, of course. Well, don’t mind me.”

“Maybe I’ll take this off too.” Dean pulled his T-shirt up and over his head. “It was pretty warm today. Still kind of muggy.”

“Good for you.” Castiel picked up the book at his side and propped it open on his lap. “I’ll just be reading.”

Dean pointed at his nipples indignantly. “You’re choosing a book over this?”

Castiel shrugged. A wry smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“You did call me a nerd. Besides, you’re innocently getting ready for bed. I wouldn’t want to make this wholesome moment all about the male gaze.”

Dean rolled his eyes as he slid under the covers. “That’s never stopped you before.”

Castiel smugly turned the page of his book. Somehow, it was possible to read smugly.

“Interesting,” Castiel murmured.

“Yeah, right. That’s _The Prophet_. Don’t pretend like you’re seeing anything in there for the first time.”

Castiel raised the brown cover to the phone’s camera. “Want me to read some of it to you?”

“Okay,” Dean said. “We’re both in bed, talking about a book. Let’s do this.”

“You didn’t complain when this book brought us together last time.”

“Come on, then. Before I fall asleep. You going to read to me about love again?”

“Naturally.” Castiel cleared his throat. “Continuing where we left off. ‘Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked.’”

“Naked, huh?” Dean stroked his collarbone. “I like where this is going.”

“Don’t be a caveman.”

“Right.” Dean stuck out his tongue. “It’s only okay when you do it.”

“‘He sifts you to free you from your husks,’” Castiel said, ignoring him. “‘He grinds you to whiteness.’”

Dean winked. “Grind me, Cass.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “‘He kneads you until you are pliant.’”

“Knead me, Cass,” Dean said breathily. “Make me pliant.”

“‘And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.’”

Castiel put down _The Prophet_ and glared. Dean cocked his head at the ceiling, smirking.

“Nothing lewd to say about that line?”

“Lewd?” Dean batted his eyes. “I’m literally just repeating what you read.”

“You little brat.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean licked his lips. “Would you spank me if you were here?”

Castiel snorted. “I don’t know. I get the feeling you might enjoy that too much.”

“Guess you’ll have to try it and see.” Dean rolled onto his side. “Seriously, though. What did all that mean?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows.

“Corn and bread? What does that have to do with love?”

“Oh, let me just tell you. No, actually, hang on. Maybe you should’ve paid more attention.”

“I did pay attention!”

“Uh-huh. Well, I could give you my interpretation. But what do you think it meant?”

“What did _I_ think?”

“Yeah. I’m interested in what you got out of it.”

Dean stopped to consider this. It wasn’t often that other people asked him for his opinion on something intellectual, even Sam. It felt strange. Nice, but strange.

“Um. So, love takes corn and makes it into bread. Maybe the author’s saying that making food is an expression of love?”

Castiel tilted his head against the pearl-white pillow. After a moment, he pushed his hand through his hair, smiling radiantly.

“I’d never thought of it that way, Dean. But it’s beautiful. Especially coming from you.”

They talked about food and books and love until Dean’s yawns grew too close together to ignore any longer, and Castiel made him hang up the call and go to sleep.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

“Why do you take this trip every year, anyway?” Dean said, the next night.

It was late on a Friday, and he was on his second cocktail. He told himself that he wasn’t technically drinking alone. Castiel was there.

“Why do I take it?”

“Yeah. Is it a family reunion or something?”

“No. Though we do have one of those every year, in August. The week of my father’s birthday.”

Dean continued typing at his laptop, waiting for Castiel to continue. He’d brought it down to the living room to respond to comments while talking to him.

“It is _a_ birthday, though.”

“Wait.” Dean’s eyes widened. “It’s not—is it your birthday? Crap, you never told me. I never asked.”

Castiel chuckled. “No, it’s not my birthday. Mine’s in September.”

“Oh. Okay, good. Got worried there for a second.” Dean pointed his index finger at the screen. “Virgo?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. I’m an Aquarius. January 24th.”

“I’m surprised you’re into astrology.”

“Not into it. Not really.” Dean finished typing, posted the reply he’d been working on. “I just know from dating apps. Everyone knows their sign on those.”

Castiel gave a disgusted noise.

“Hookup apps,” he said with disdain.

“Hey, I never said I was there just to hook up.” Dean’s lip twitched. “Okay, full disclosure…that was generally part of the bargain.”

“You don’t say,” Castiel said dryly. He threw Dean a withering glance before returning his gaze to his computer.

“Didn’t think you’d be such a prude about it,” Dean said. He actually felt hurt, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. “I thought you gay guys were all about casual sex.”

Castiel’s hands went still on his keyboard.

“What did you say?”

“I just—” Dean looked down. “Never mind. I’m being stupid.”

“I’d say so. I hope that was a failed attempt at humor, Dean.”

“I mean, you could also be less judgmental. Not make me feel like crap just because I’ve tried online dating.”

“Then why not say that? You don’t have to lash out at me with stereotypes to make your point.”

Dean shook his head. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Cass.”

“Dean, look at me.”

He turned to the phone; Castiel had moved his laptop away, and he was leaning into the camera.

“I’m sorry if it seemed like I was attacking you when I dissed dating apps. That wasn’t my intent.” Castiel rested his chin in his palm. “In truth, I wasn’t talking about you at all. I was just reflecting my own experiences—with the superficiality in the gay community, specifically. How there’s so much emphasis on bodies and dicks instead of minds and hearts. You’re right; there’s such a culture of hooking up just to get more notches on your bedpost. I’ve always rejected that.”

Dean scratched his head. “You’re so hot, though. Couldn’t you get anyone?”

“That’s sweet of you.” Castiel smiled. “Well, I have no idea. I haven’t tried much. Nor do I want to. I’ve dated when the opportunity presented itself, but I don’t do casual sex. Never have.”

“Huh,” Dean said, thinking of his own number. His proverbial bedpost had probably run out of room for further notches sometime in his mid-twenties. Castiel didn’t need to know that.

“It’s by no means all gay men,” Castiel was saying. “Nor is superficiality a problem particular to us. American culture as a whole is superficial. Everything’s about fame and wealth and appearances. Well, and—we have an ignoramus reality television star as president. That pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?”

Dean snorted. He rubbed his cheek.

“Sorry, Dean. I’ll climb down from my soapbox.”

“No, I was just thinking it’s ironic. That you don’t do the whole online dating thing, yet you flirted with me on Instagram and….” Dean shrugged. “Here we are.”

“Life is full of ironies like that.”

For a moment, Castiel gazed off to the side, and it seemed as if he were about to say something weighty and important. Instead, he picked up his laptop and resumed what he’d been clicking away at before, and Dean returned to his comments. There were still dozens to get through.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Castiel called him earlier than usual on Saturday. Dean was still in the kitchen, erasing and penciling in the balance of seasonings on a recipe card, a pan sizzling at his back. He was trying to get this one right before shooting the video tomorrow.

“Hey, Cass. Hope you don’t mind sharing me with my stove for a little while.”

Castiel gave a halfhearted motion of his head, somewhere between a shake and a nod without fully committing to either. He looked like he’d been crying. Dean stuck his pencil into his apron pocket.

“What’s wrong?”

“No, I’m—tell me about your day first.”

“Oh, I just worked the farmer’s market and did some grocery shopping. Nothing too interesting. And I’m just tweaking a recipe now.” Dean dredged the crispy golden cubes of tofu from the hot oil and left them to drain on a paper towel. “You sure you’re okay?”

Castiel shut his eyes, seemed to swallow something down. He was already lying across the hotel bed. It wasn’t even eight yet.

“Just a family thing. A fight. I wish I could say I was in the right, but I wasn’t. I never have been.”

Dean stopped stirring the pan of bean sprouts. “What do you mean, ‘never have been?’”

Castiel sighed.

“It’d take a while to explain. And I’d prefer to do it in person.”

“Cass, you’re scaring me, man.”

“No, it’s—” he sat up and smiled gamely into the phone. “It’s not bad. It’s just…stuff I don’t want to talk about unless I really trust someone. And see him being in my life for the long haul.”

Dean grinned at the bean sprouts. He didn’t care that he was blushing.

“Long haul, huh?”

“Well, you haven’t gotten sick of me yet. That’s like, 80 percent of the battle.” Castiel peered at the camera. “What’s that you’re making?”

“Crispy breaded tofu with a sweet and spicy bean sprout salad.” Dean started plating his dinner. “I wish you were here to test it for me.”

“So do I. Being in your kitchen, watching you cook, digging in across the table from you—it’s my happy place.”

“A week left.”

“Eight days.”

Dean sat down in the dining room. “You’re not going to read me the hours and minutes again, are you?”

“I could.”

Dean blew on his rice, took his first bite.

“How is it?”

“A little less soy sauce, I think.” Dean blew on another bite. “So, about when you get here next Sunday.”

Castiel played with his hair. “Yeah?”

“How long are you thinking of staying? Because Sam’s flying out to California the Friday after that. He won’t be able to take you back to DC.”

“Oh.” Castiel smiled. “That’s a shame. A real shame.”

“Isn’t it?” Dean licked his fork. “I could drive you back, I guess. If you need me to.”

“I don’t know. You’re so busy. It might be easier for me to just stay a little longer. I mean, if that’s an option.”

“I wouldn’t mind that. And I guess we’ll get to test what you were saying earlier.”

Castiel tilted his head.

“Whether I get sick of you.” Dean winked.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

The first workers arrived on Sunday afternoon, filling six of the ten housing units. There were four families with school-age children; an older couple; and a trio of guys in their early twenties who’d been working strawberry season here for five years now. Dean lost track of time while catching up with them, and Sam was already waiting for him in the kitchen when he returned to the house.

“I just got here,” Sam said, looking up from his phone. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ve got something new to test on you today.” Dean tossed the bags of bean sprouts in the sink’s general direction.

“That’s great, Dean.”

Dean finished gathering up the ingredients, pushing the refrigerator door closed behind him with his hip. He laid them out on the island and scratched his forehead. Sam was drumming his fingers on the birchwood, and Dean didn’t like the owlish look in his eyes one bit.

“I’ve been patient, Dean.” Sam cleared his throat. “All week, you’ve been telling me you’ll fill me in on what the hell’s going on with you and Cass once we can talk in person, and now I’m here.”

“You ever stop to think it’s none of your business?” Dean said, trying indignation.

Sam rolled his eyes.

“Why’re you always bringing up Cass, anyway? You interested in him or something?”

“I don’t know.” Sam’s eyes followed him as he walked to the knife block, then back. “What if I am?”

Dean fumbled the knife.

“What?”

“What if I am? Would you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Dean mumbled. He bashed a clove of garlic with brutal force. “I don’t care if you’re into dudes, Sam. I mean, you’ve been to the Celine Dion Vegas show multiple times. I’m not sure how surprised you expect me to be.”

“Uh-huh. But it’s not just any guy we’re talking about, is it? It’s Cass.”

“And?” Dean hurled the empty bottle of sesame oil into the glass recycling bin under the sink. “So you’ve got the hots for Cass, why should I care?”

“Liar.” Sam chuckled. “Wow, you’re so pissed I even said it. I can tell from how you’re throwing things around.”

“Do you know how irritating you are?” Dean slammed the cabinet shut. “What am I saying? Of course you don’t.”

Sam stood up from his stool, his mouth already curving around an apology, but Dean shot him a look of pure wrath. He returned to his seat meekly.

“I’m sorry,” Sam ventured, after several minutes in which the only sound was the slow tap of Dean’s knife against the chopping board. “I took it too far.”

Dean ignored him.

“I’m not interested in Cass. Or any other men. Though, who knows. I’m open to it if it ever happens.”

“Okay,” Dean grunted. “Good for you.”

“Come on, Dean. I said I’m sorry.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Talk to me? About—”

“Me and Cass are friends,” Dean interrupted. “He’s gay, I’m straight. We get along. That’s all you need to know.”

Sam sighed and shook his head. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Let’s start filming. I’m done with all the prep.”

Later that evening, after Sam had returned to DC and Dean had posted the recipes for crispy breaded tofu and sweet and spicy bean sprout salad, he talked about it with Castiel.

“Believe it or not, I actually wanted to tell him.”

“Yeah?” Castiel loosened his tie, then threw it off to the side somewhere. His suitcase, Dean guessed.

“Yeah.” Dean leaned back into the beanbag. “I’d thought through everything I wanted to say. Nice thing about farming, there’s plenty of time alone all day to think.”

“So, why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. It was just way harder to get the words out face to face than when I’d said them in my head. And then I got mad.”

“Mad? Because of Sam’s teasing?”

“No—I mean, yeah, a little. But Sam’s always like that. Frankly, I’d be concerned if he _didn’t_ find a way to be a little shit when he knew he could get under my skin.”

“Ah,” Castiel laughed. He popped open the top button of his white dress shirt and scratched the base of his neck.

 _Less than a week_ , Dean thought.

“Uh,” Dean said, once he realized Castiel was waiting for him to continue. “It’s hard to describe. I’d spent all this time thinking about how I’d tell him, feeling the stress pile up; and then when I finally arrived in the moment, it’s like all the nervousness fell away and I was just angry. Angry that I’d worried myself sick over how I’d tell him. Angry that I had to explain myself over something that isn’t anyone’s business but ours. Angry that I’ll have to do this over and over with everyone I know, and with total strangers, and then having to deal with their reactions.” Dean took a deep breath. “Did that make any sense?”

“I’d say those are all common feelings.” Castiel smiled wistfully. “Welcome to being gay.”

“I don’t think I’m gay.”

“Bi?”

Dean pursed his lips. “Maybe. I had…I don’t know. Thoughts about guys. Before you. Not that often—it was rare enough that I just dismissed them. Or maybe I just wanted to dismiss them.”

“Hmm.” Castiel unbuttoned the rest of his dress shirt and switched it out for a grey Bowdoin T-shirt, complete with a genial-looking polar bear. He struggled with getting it past his shoulders at first, and for a few seconds all Dean saw was long, flailing arms; a spray of dark brown underarm hair; a hard, tanned midsection.

“But I guess—” Dean swallowed. “I guess I’m just a late bloomer.”

“Well,” Castiel said over his shoulder, his side to the camera. “Don’t label yourself if you’re not ready. It’s fine to still be figuring things out. Everyone has their own journey.”

“Thanks, Cass.”

Castiel whipped off his belt and threw it in the same direction he’d thrown the tie. “For what?”

“For being patient with me. For…for understanding.”

“‘Love is patient,’” Castiel said, casting a smile back at the camera. “‘Love is kind.’”

He was partway through shedding his navy slacks, stooped over with one of his arms stretching down to free its leg. Anyone else in the entire world would’ve looked ridiculous. To Dean, he looked like the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“ _The Prophet_?” Dean said.

Castiel tilted his head. “The Bible. First Corinthians.”

“Oh.” Dean grimaced. “Sorry. I’m dumb.”

Castiel pulled on his pajama bottoms and fell back into the mattress. He brought the phone close and sighed.

“You’re not, Dean. We’ve just found something else to read together, that’s all.”

The him before Castiel would’ve derided reading anything from the Bible without a second thought. Now, though—all he did was smile back through the phone.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

_Sorry about yesterday, Sammy._

_I was a jerk._

_We already hugged it out!_

_Yeah. Still, I feel kind of bad._

_Don’t sweat it._

_I was being annoying on purpose_ _😉_

_Oh, that? Bush league._

_I talked to Cass last night._

_Told him about your crush on him._

_What?_

_What the hell, Dean._

_I told you I wasn’t serious._

_Now he’s gonna think I’m some weirdo creep._

_😂 You’re too easy, Sammy._

_…_

_You know it’s an hour and a half from here to there, right?_

_That’s a lot of time for him and me to be in the car alone together._

_I’ll be sure to set the record straight on Sunday._

_Interesting choice of words._

_I’m just saying, Dean._

_He’ll be hearing which one of us really has a crush on him._

_😊_

Dean smirked at his phone. He was close—tantalizingly close—to blowing the entire thing wide open. _He knows_ , Dean wanted to type, full of self-satisfaction. _We’ve kissed. He wants to be with me as long as I’ll have him. I even call him angel._

 _Do that and your life is forfeit,_ Dean wrote instead.

He ate the last bite of his sandwich and wiped his hands, enjoying the comfort of the truck cab for a little while longer before opening the door and jumping out onto the gravel. It was the first day of strawberry picking, and he had to get back out there.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

The days this week passed more quickly than the last. The arrival of the workers heralded the start of the picking season, which shifted the rhythms of life on the farm, awakening it to summer. Dean’s mornings were earlier; he was guzzling his first cup of coffee now in the pitch-darkness and heading out the door when there was only the faintest purple along the rim of the sky. He traded his mulch and pruning shears for the keys to the delivery truck, which he used to convey the pallets of strawberries to refrigeration at the warehouse. For dinner, he fell back on easy favorites with a few simple ingredients—he only had one recipe video planned in the next seven days. It was all part of the changing of the year.

Castiel was on the move as well. His backdrop on Monday night was a new one, and he explained that he was at his family’s home now rather than a hotel. He didn’t say why he’d been at a hotel in the first place, and Dean was reluctant to probe him. He suspected that it had something to do with why he’d been crying on Saturday, and he’d already acquiesced to waiting until they could talk about that in person.

“You seem tired,” Castiel said. It was Tuesday, just after 10 p.m., and they were both lying in bed, talking across their pillows. Dean found it cute that Castiel had started getting into bed at the same time he did, despite his own bedtime being closer to when Dean was waking up than drifting off. _It’s so we can be together_ , Castiel had said the first time, matter-of-factly.

“I _am_ tired. Have to spend more of my day around people now. Plus, I’m getting up almost an hour earlier.”

“Why?”

“The workers start picking at dawn.” Dean yawned loudly. “I need to be available in case there’re any problems.”

“How often does that happen?”

“Almost never,” Dean conceded. “But you know the first morning I let myself sleep in will be when disaster strikes. It’s the way of the universe.”

In part because of his fatigue, their FaceTime conversations stayed exactly that. Well, fatigue and Castiel’s deft way of turning back all attempts by Dean to draw him into anything beyond innuendo. He hadn’t been joking about his Luddite streak when it came to dating. He’d tease and banter, not to mention undress in front of the camera, but immediately put a lid on things whenever Dean started getting too frisky. He didn’t even crack a smile at a “send nudes” pun Dean made.

“Garth came over today,” Dean said on Wednesday. “To try some of the strawberries and finalize some stuff.”

“Your growing berry empire,” Castiel said, without turning away from the passage he was revising on his laptop.

“Nah. I want to avoid going bigger for as long as I can. You really lose the soul of a farm that way.”

“Hmm. That never occurred to me.”

“He loved the house, of course.”

“Of course.” Castiel grinned. “Who wouldn’t?”

“You know, he asked me if it’s on the National Register of Historic Places. He seemed surprised that it isn’t.”

“I did wonder about that.” Castiel stroked his neck with the back of his hand. “It’s clearly an eligible candidate. Old and well preserved, obviously. And an exquisite example of the Federal style, at least to my untrained eye.”

Dean looked around his bedroom. It was funny to think that he lived in a historical artifact, surrounded by antiques. After more than a decade and a half of being here, it seemed normal. Boring, even.

“I think Dad mentioned something a long time ago about Henry not wanting to go through the whole process. He was kind of a…is hermit the right word? He didn’t want the federal government barging in and telling him how to take care of his house.”

“I doubt that’s what happens.”

“Huh.” Dean yawned. “You think I should look into it?”

“Why not? It couldn’t hurt.” Castiel turned to him. “You should go to sleep, Dean. You’ve been yawning for the last twenty minutes.”

“Yeah.” Dean yawned again. “You’re right.”

“When you wake up, it’ll only be three sleeps until I’m there again.”

“It’ll feel like a month. You’re not heading out of town again soon, are you?”

Castiel chuckled. “Not until August. I’m all yours until then.”

“Good,” Dean murmured. His eyes were already drifting shut.

Garth’s strawberry order was satisfied by the end of day on Thursday, and there were even a few pallets left over. It was just in the nick of time, too, because the skies opened up and started pouring rain early Friday morning.

“So, what’d you do all day?” Castiel said that evening. Dean was perched at the edge of his seat in his office, channeling his anxiety into new recipes. The rain slid over the window in heavy, oily-black drops.

“Nothing. Well, not nothing. I did accounts and purchasing for the farm. Worked on the food blog a bit. Repaired the leaky faucet in the downstairs bathroom.”

“But nothing with the berries.”

“No, you can’t harvest berries in the rain. Especially not this much rain. Lots of reasons—disease, product quality. Just have to wait it out.”

“Hmm.”

“Forecast says it’ll keep going for at least a few more days. That’s one of the reasons I was pushing the harvest so hard earlier in the week. I knew this was coming.”

“Well, every cloud has a silver lining. Now you have some free time.”

“I don’t want free time,” Dean said sullenly. “I want to work.”

“I know,” Castiel said. “But you can’t do anything about it. May as well make the most of the time you have.”

He took Castiel’s advice the next day. In the morning, he made granola and bread dough, sticking the latter into the refrigerator for a twenty-four-hour proof. He didn’t make bread very often, but Castiel was right. He had the time.

After lunch, he broke out the hand-cranked ice cream maker and made strawberry ice cream. That and the task of cleaning the whole house helped in discharging some of his anxious energy. Castiel wrote him just after four to say that he’d arrived back at Washington National, and Dean replied with a picture of Crowley looking out the French doors at the rain.

 _You getting this storm over there?_ Sam texted, around dinnertime.

_Yeah. What the hell, it’s like that one we had when we first moved here._

_Isabel?_

_That’s the name. Surprised you remember._

_Dad cursed it often enough_ _😄_

_“That Isabel chick, what a bitch!”_

_Well, hopefully all this rain fucks off soon._

_Start of strawberry season, timing couldn’t be worse._

_Yeah._

_On the bright side, rain is pretty romantic._

_Just saying._

_……_

_This just got awkward._

_I’m referring to the fact that I’m bringing Cass with me tomorrow._

_Shut up about Cass already._

_You seen that Eileen chick again yet?_

Sam didn’t reply. Dean grinned, elated to have finally found a way to shut his brother’s cakehole.

That night, Dean watched Castiel pack his suitcase, the classic rock playlist he’d made him playing softly from the apartment’s sound system in the background. Castiel was tired and grumpy and had spent most of the last hour complaining about planes, airports, and rain.

“Just leave the dirty clothes in there,” Dean said. “You can wash them when you get here.”

“No.”

“Okay. Just trying to help. You’re the one who’s complaining about having to pack again.”

Castiel grunted in resignation. He tossed the dirty laundry back into the suitcase and collapsed onto his bed.

“Attaboy.” Dean grinned. “Clothes are overrated, anyway.”

Castiel snorted. “You planning on getting me naked, Dean Winchester?”

“I mean, it’s like you said. I have all this free time.” Dean stretched under the covers. “All day. All night. And it’s not like we can go out. It’s raining.”

“Sounds like the perfect conditions for reading.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Do you think you’ll be able to restrain yourself tomorrow?” Castiel winked. “While Sam’s there, I mean.”

“You kidding? I’m the model of self-control. I pushed down my attraction to men for thirty years, for one.”

As it turned out, he was wrong.

The next day, he slept in, made whole wheat and yogurt pancakes with fresh strawberries, and spent the entire morning watching _Scooby_. He baked the bread and prepped the ingredients for dinner and turned on the lamps in the corners of the library. He double checked Castiel’s room to make sure everything looked right—he didn’t want to assume anything about where he’d be sleeping.

 _We’re on our way now_ , Castiel texted, just before three.

 _See you soon, angel_ _❤_

_❤_

_By the way, Sam’s acting kind of weird. Is he okay?_

Dean burst out laughing. He devoted the next hour to spot cleaning little things he’d missed and scrolling agitatedly through Instagram. He googled “love is patient love is kind” and read a few lines from the top result before closing the tab, thinking it’d be better to hear the rest of it for the first time from Castiel’s lips.

Sam’s headlights caught on the kitchen’s windowpanes at 4:30. Something tightened in Dean’s gut, and he nearly tripped over the stool he’d been sitting on when he tried to move. He paused in front of the hallway mirror and smoothed down his green jacket, his red and grey plaid shirt. His hands trembled as he reached for the doorknob.

By the time Dean got out to the front porch, Castiel was already most of the way up the path, Sam close behind. No suitcases yet, though Castiel had his laptop bag over his shoulder. He was wearing that damn trench coat again, and Dean snorted and shook his head.

“Hey, handsome,” Castiel said, once he’d reached the bottom of the porch. He beamed up at Dean as if he weren’t standing in the pouring rain like a dumbass.

“Hey, angel.”

Dean moved down, out past the roof overhang and into the deluge. The last step was slippery, and Dean teetered at its edge, wrapping his arms around the breadth of Castiel’s chest, breathing in his coffee and lavender and patchouli scent, kissing him with absolutely none of the restraint he’d bragged about the night before. Sam chuckled from a few feet back, no doubt pleased at being vindicated. Dean couldn’t have cared less. He was pitched forward so far that he would’ve tumbled face-first into the brick walkway if Castiel weren’t holding him up, and somehow that made it better. Letting go, knowing that Castiel’s tight grip was the only thing keeping him from falling, felt like the kind of love he’d been waiting for all his life.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Crispy Breaded Tofu and Sweet and Spicy Bean Sprout Salad

_I confess, I used to not be the biggest tofu guy. One time at a restaurant, I ordered a tofu burger just to try it. The waiter mixed up my order and served me a bacon cheeseburger instead, and I had no idea until she came back to switch it out. That’s how oblivious I was to the stuff._

_I’ve been opening my mind more recently, though. Trying new things. And I’ve realized that I actually kind of like tofu. It’s like a blank canvas that you can paint with any flavors you want. Plus, it crisps up really well, which is a great quality for food to have._

_This tofu is seasoned just with salt and pepper, but the bean sprout salad I make with it has a very strong sweet, spicy, salty, and garlicky profile that pairs well with it. Serve with some steamed rice for a cheap and tasty meal!_

Cook time: 40 minutes

Serves 3

1 package firm tofu (14-16 ounces)

¼ cup flour

½ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

½ cup unsweetened soy milk*

½ cup Panko breadcrumbs

2 cups high smoke point oil (e.g. avocado oil or canola oil)

1 pound mung bean sprouts, washed well

2 tablespoons sesame oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 bird’s eye chili peppers, minced**

3 green onions, finely chopped

1 tablespoon soy sauce

1 tablespoon coconut sugar***

Rinse the tofu and pat dry with a paper towel. Let stand on a paper towel so that excess water runs out.

In a small bowl, mix together flour, salt, and pepper. Pour the soy milk into a second bowl, and the breadcrumbs into a third bowl.

Slice the tofu into the desired size. I like flipping it onto its side and slicing it into two wide, thin sections, then laying it flat again and cutting it into eight equal pieces, yielding sixteen pieces total. Breading is a pretty tedious kitchen task, so I prefer larger pieces.

Start by rolling each piece in the flour mixture. Then, dip into the soy milk. Finally, coat each piece in breadcrumbs. I use chopsticks to handle the pieces of tofu through this. Place the breaded tofu on a plate and get rid of any extra flour/soy milk/breadcrumbs once it’s all coated.

In a medium saucepan, heat the high smoke point oil on medium high heat. You can check the heat by testing breadcrumbs—once one sizzles and floats to the surface instantly, you’re ready to fry your tofu. Add the breaded tofu to the oil, no more than a few pieces at a time, and fry until golden brown. Turn down the heat if your oil starts spitting or smoking. Let the tofu drain its excess oil on a wire rack or paper towels.

Fill a large pot with water and bring to a boil. In a large pan, heat the sesame oil, garlic, and chilis on medium heat until aromatic. Add the green onions and sauté for 1-2 minutes. Finally, add the soy sauce and coconut sugar, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat.

Add the bean sprouts to the boiling water and cook for 1 minute. A large pot is important here because it means the water will return to temperature more quickly after the bean sprouts have been added and you want a quick, hot blanch. Drain well, shaking the colander if necessary. We want to avoid transporting extra water to the sauce.

Add the bean sprouts to the pan and mix well. You can do a quick heat-through on high heat while doing this if you have too much moisture, but not for more than a minute. You’ll overcook the bean sprouts and lose the crispiness if you cook them much longer.

Serve with steamed rice.

*You can use a standard egg wash for the second stage of breading tofu. I just used soy milk because it performs the same function and I have some left over from Cass being here. Also, it makes the meal vegan, which is always good for impressing Sam.

**You can leave in or remove as much of the seeds and white parts of the pepper to suit your spice tolerance—most of the heat resides here. If you can’t get your hands on fresh chili peppers, you can use chili flakes. I use a teaspoon of gochugaru (Korean chili powder/flakes) when I don’t have bird’s eye chilis on hand, though a similar amount of standard chili flakes would work too. If you’re not sure about the heat, start at ½ teaspoon of dried chili and work up from there.

***If you don’t have coconut sugar, either brown sugar or granulated sugar work just fine.


	13. Prebranac

When they came in from the storm, Sam walked ahead to the linen closet, fetched two towels, and tossed one to Castiel.

“What about me?” Dean flicked his hands at Sam, flinging water droplets down the hallway. Sam held his towel up for a shield.

“I figured you two could share,” Sam said, a twinkle in his eye.

“Smells nice in here.” Castiel patted the towel over his face. “Is that bread?”

“Yeah.” Dean took the offered towel from Castiel’s hand. “I baked bread for you.”

Sam smirked. “What about me?”

“What _about_ you?”

Sam balled up his used towel and hurled it at Dean’s chest.

“You little bitch,” Dean growled. “We’re this close to wrestling.”

“What?” Castiel said.

“It’s a thing we did growing up,” Sam explained. “Dean and I would wrestle when we were pissed at each other and needed to get it out of our system. Not really fair, since he was always bigger.”

“Until you hit 15 and became Sasquatch.”

“We’re not really mad at each other.” Sam bumped Dean’s shoulder with his palm. “I’m just so damn excited right now. I’ve never seen Dean as happy as you make him, Cass.”

“Come on,” Dean muttered. He could already feel his face going red. “You’re embarrassing.”

“No, by all means, keep going.” Castiel ruffled the damp hair on the back of Dean’s head.

“Plus, Dean’s walking on air, so I know he won’t do anything. Perfect time to push his buttons.”

“See what I have to deal with? Everyone thinks he’s the mature one. Yeah, right.” Dean turned away from the two of them and surveyed the island. “I’ve got everything set up for dinner. Who’s going to help me with the video? It’s a special one.”

“Really?” Sam said. “What’s special about it?”

“It’s a simple recipe.” Dean reached for his apron, tied it around his waist. “But my channel reached 10k subscribers last night.”

“What? Dean, that’s awesome!”

“I’m happy for you.” Castiel squeezed his shoulder. “You deserve this.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you.” Dean pecked Castiel’s cheek before reluctantly turning to Sam. “Without either of you.”

“I didn’t quite hear that,” Sam said. “Mind repeating it?”

“Can we send him back early, Cass?”

“No way. I’m enjoying this dynamic.”

“Yeah, and so much for telling him that I was the one with a crush. It only took me about fifteen minutes of awkward fumbling on the drive over here to figure out that was a lie.” Sam walked to the other side of the island. “It’s okay, though. I’ll take the high road. Like usual.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean said. “High road. That’s you in a nutshell.”

“Hey, you guys want to cook together?” Sam hunched down to inspect the tripod. “I can do all the behind-the-camera stuff.”

Castiel peeled off his trench coat and hung it in the hallway. He washed his hands and joined Dean at the island. After smoothing his hair behind his ears, Sam gave them a thumbs up.

“Hey folks.” Dean beamed at the camera for a second before pointing finger guns to his left. “Look who’s back!”

“I am,” Castiel said. “Hello, internet.”

“Cass, this is a very special video. You know why?”

“Because I’m in it?”

“Besides that.”

“Because we both look extra sexy after getting caught in the rain?”

“I like piña coladas,” Sam piped up.

“No talking from the gremlins behind the camera, please.” Dean turned left again. “No, Cass. It’s special because this channel hit 10,000 subscribers last night.”

“Ah.” Castiel looked down at the ingredients. “Do we have a special dish planned for the occasion?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘special.’ We’re making prebranac, which is a Balkan baked beans dish. It’s vegetarian, easy, cheap, delicious, warm, comforting…well, I’d say it captures the essence of my cooking pretty well. What do you think?”

“I think—” Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder and smiled. “I think that any meal with you is special, Dean.”

“Gag,” Sam muttered.

“Ignore the jealousy in the peanut gallery, dear viewer. 10k! This one’s for all you lovely people out there.”

The preparation was quick, but the casserole had to go into the oven for an hour and a half. Sam poured them glasses of the syrah he’d brought, which they took to the living room. They stood at the door to the deck, talking about the farm and the effects the rain would have on the fruits and flowers. Sam asked his monthly question about how things were going and whether Dean needed help with anything, and Dean did his monthly shooting-down. Castiel watched it all intently.

“So,” Sam said, extending the vowel ominously. “I have questions.”

The three of them had moved to the couch and the adjacent armchair, and Sam had brought the bottle to the living room for easier refilling. Dean and Castiel were sitting together on one side of the couch. Dean had his arm around Castiel’s shoulders.

“You usually do,” Castiel noted. “I love our talks on the drives to and from DC. You’re very curious. Just like Dean.”

Sam snickered into his wine glass. “Well, I don’t know if I’m _that_ curious.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just—” Sam crossed his legs, leaned back into the armchair, held his wine out to one side. He was savoring the moment; Dean could tell. “I mean, how’d it all happen? Tell me everything.”

“We’re not telling him everything,” Dean grunted. He squeezed Castiel’s shoulder to add extra finality to his statement.

“What can we tell him?”

“I already told him about our date,” Dean said. “Our dance.”

“Ah.”

“We kissed a couple days later.” Dean turned away from Sam with a bashful smile on his face. “Because of a book.”

“A book?”

“It was a reading on love from _The Prophet_. Dean’s a closet bookworm. Well, and we’ve kind of been together since.” Castiel glanced at him. “Right?”

“Of course.” Dean kissed the side of Castiel’s mouth. “I’m just glad you’re finally back.”

“Alright, alright.” Sam wrinkled his nose. “I don’t need to see that. Get a room.”

“We have options,” Dean said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Lots of rooms in this house.”

Sam blanched. “As long as you stay out of my room. I swear to God.”

“You heard it yourself, Cass. The rest of the house is fair game.”

“Hmm. You know, for someone who didn’t want to tell your brother everything, you don’t seem to mind oversharing.”

They all laughed. Dean poured some more wine into his and Castiel’s glasses.

“Seriously, though, Dean. I’ve been noticing a change in you for a couple years now. Especially since you and Lisa split up.”

Castiel tilted his head. “A change?”

“Yeah.” Dean scratched his cheek. “I think he’s talking about how I used to be more of a lady’s man.”

“That’s an understatement. Dean kind of has a reputation in town.”

“Sam,” Dean warned. “How about you let me and Cass talk about that in our own time?”

“Fine.” Sam held up his hands. “You’re right.”

A beat passed before Castiel spoke again.

“Do you agree?” he said, turning to Dean. “That something changed for you a couple years ago?”

“Maybe. I mean, uh….”

Sam peered at him. Castiel rubbed his thigh reassuringly.

“Well, that was around when Dad died. Maybe I felt like I could be myself a little more after that. Whatever—whatever that means.”

“I get that, obviously,” Sam said. “I miss Dad from time to time, but…anyway, I’m proud of you, Dean. So much.”

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean cleared his throat. “Alright, that’s enough Lifetime for right now. I need to check the oven.”

At dinner, Castiel and Sam did most of the talking, usually with each other. Castiel wanted to hear more about the brothers’ childhood, about what Dean was like as a teenager, about Sam’s time in California and his upcoming trip there. Sam told Castiel the truth about why Dean showed up at the protest, prodded him about politics, asked him what he and Dean had planned for the next weeks. Dean did his best to stay out of their way. He had the feeling that he was observing the development of a relationship which would make up one of the cornerstones of his world for a long time to come.

The storm had shifted by the time Sam was ready to return to DC. There was less rain, more wind. They carried Castiel’s suitcase and bags into the house to the faint rumbling of thunder.

“You could stay,” Dean said. “If you don’t feel like driving in that, I mean.”

“Nah.” Sam finished hugging Castiel, then embraced Dean. “I need to be back in the office tomorrow. Lots to do before my vacation. Besides, you two don’t want me in your way.”

“Alright. Be careful.”

“Always am.” Sam took a step back, looked from Dean to Castiel and back again. “Have fun, you guys.”

“Get out of here,” Dean said. “Have a good time in California.”

He kicked the seat of Sam’s pants softly. He watched Sam’s taillights until they got to the end of the driveway.

“Well.” Dean turned around, stretched his arms above his head. “Here we are, Cass.”

Castiel didn’t say anything. Instead, he strode forward, pushed Dean up against the front door, and kissed him. His lips and tongue were hot and desperate and tasted like sweet red wine.

“Cass,” Dean moaned.

Castiel’s hands curved around Dean’s hips and grabbed handfuls of his rear. He flicked his tongue across Dean’s teeth, bumped his forehead into his.

“Tell me you want this,” Castiel rasped.

“Damn.” Dean brought his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, squeezed the long, lean muscles of his back. “You’re pretty aggressive for a small, nerdy guy.”

“I’m not small. Not in any way that counts. You’re about to find that out.”

Dean licked his lips. He stumbled forward, walking both of them to the base of the staircase.

“As for being nerdy—” Castiel sucked a soft bite into the skin of Dean’s neck. “You know what they say about the quiet ones.”

“Mmm.” Dean pulled away, but only so he could lead Castiel up the stairs. “What do they say?”

Castiel looked up at him with dark eyes. A long, cacophonous thunderclap boomed above the house. The lights flickered.

“Maybe I’ll just show you,” Castiel murmured. He pawed at Dean’s back with sudden tenderness, and they ascended the rest of the steps hand in hand.

No sooner had Dean closed his bedroom door behind them than a flash of lightning lit Castiel from all sides, lending his features an almost ethereal quality. With his mussed clothes, careless hair, and sky-blue eyes, he looked to Dean like a freshly fallen angel.

“You didn’t answer me,” Castiel said. His voice was an even lower growl than usual.

“Huh?”

Castiel reached for Dean’s belt, tugged it towards him, unhitched it. The darkness of the master bedroom felt thick with secrets, brimming with all the forbidden desires Dean had held in for his entire life.

“I asked if you want this. Do you want this, Dean?”

“Yes.” Dean groaned. “Fuck yes. I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Castiel got Dean out of his clothes with so much dispatch that Dean started wondering, not for the first time, why he’d ever considered him nerdy and bookish. He tossed Dean onto the bed and started undressing himself. Dean pushed himself up by his elbows.

“Don’t want me to do it?”

The lightning crackled again, igniting every hard line of Castiel’s torso. Thunder shook the house’s roof only a second later.

“Maybe next time.” Castiel dropped his jeans and crawled onto the bed. “I always rush through the getting naked part. You’ll have to teach me a better way.”

“I’ll teach you way more than that.”

“Yeah,” Castiel breathed. “I’m sure you will.”

Castiel moved up to the pillows, caging Dean in with his arms and legs. He scattered kisses down the front of Dean’s body: the underside of his chin, the bulge of his throat, the arch of his collarbone. He kissed the thumping skin over Dean’s heart once, twice. He looked up.

“What—” Castiel’s hot breath hit Dean’s chest in short, quick bursts. “Dean, what do you want to do? Tell me what you want.”

Dean gulped. His hand trembled as he traced the rim of Castiel’s ear, scratched down through Castiel’s stubble, brought the tip of his thumb to Castiel’s bottom lip, feeling the warm wetness there.

“Everything,” he whispered. “I want to do everything with you, Cass.”

Castiel slid his tongue across Dean’s thumbnail.

“Everything, huh?”

“Yeah.” Dean added his index finger to Castiel’s mouth. “Show me how it’s done, Cass. I trust you. I’m ready.”

Castiel gave a final suck to the two digits before pulling off slowly. He pushed himself up and turned to the window. A blaze of lightning illuminated his face for a split-second, and he almost looked melancholy. Dean thought it must have been a trick of the light.

“Cass? You alright?”

“Yeah.” Castiel hung his head. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

Lowering himself to his elbows again, he spoke his next words with his mouth and chest flush against Dean’s body, so that Dean felt the vibration of his voice before hearing it.

“Your trust—it humbles me, Dean. But if I hurt you, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Dean laughed. Thunder rolled through the sky outside, long and low.

“What?”

“Man, you’re so full of yourself. I mean, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, but it’s not like you’re working with a porn dick.”

Castiel shook his head against Dean’s chest. “That’s not what I meant.”

Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel. He pulled and rolled so that they were side by side again, entangled in the sheets. The next thunderbolt was closer, bolder, and Dean was able to get a better look at Castiel’s face. His expression was openly conflicted, and Dean worried for a moment that Castiel was having second thoughts about them.

“Cass?” Dean rubbed Castiel’s back. “Talk to me.”

“Maybe—” Castiel’s voice shrank, almost to a mumble. “Maybe we don’t do everything tonight. Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean thumbed Castiel’s nape. “Yeah, of course that’s okay, angel.”

“I still want to—” Castiel swallowed. “You have no idea how much I want to. But I want….”

“You want it to be special?” Dean grinned. “Never knew you were such a romantic.”

Castiel shrugged in his arms. His hands started wandering down Dean’s front again.

“Nothing wrong with saving something for later. Makes it better sometimes.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Besides.” Castiel took Dean in his hands, and Dean bucked forward into his tight grip. “There’re all sorts of things we can try before we get to everything.”

The lightning flared, nearly on top of the house this time. It was bright as a cloudless day in Dean’s room for a breathless moment, and the last thing he saw before everything went dark again was Castiel’s blue eyes staring up at him as he moved under the covers, further down Dean’s body.

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Dean woke up to a light spattering of rain on the bedroom windows and the soft creaking of the shutters in the wind. He couldn’t tell, just by the light, what time it was. Everything from sunrise to sunset looked the same on days this dreary.

After checking his phone—7:40 a.m.—he turned to his left, away from the storm. Under the fluffy duvet, Castiel was a small thing, sprawled flat, nearly spread-eagled, with one of his legs hooked around Dean’s. All that was visible was his angelic face: the Cupid’s bow of his lips squashed against the pillow; his cherubic nose; his hurricane of hair, like he’d been hit head-on by a heavenly wind and hadn’t bothered with a comb again after that. He was a front sleeper. Dean grinned at that knowledge.

More than anything, Dean wanted to stay tangled up with him forever. But there was a farm to run.

Gently, carefully, Dean unwound himself and swung his feet to the hardwood. He picked up his T-shirt from the floor and pulled it on, rubbing the slight crick in his neck. He stood and stretched and smiled down at the bed. Castiel hadn’t stirred.

Dean walked to the hallway, closing the door behind him softly. He made his way to the stairs like he did every morning. Today, though, he’d slept in long enough for the horizon to be visible from the Palladian window, and he stopped at the overlook to gauge the weather. There was still some wind and drizzle, but the tempest had calmed since last night. Maybe that had been its crescendo; maybe tomorrow would be dry, even sunny.

He was partway through planning how he’d reboot the picking when he heard footsteps on the floorboards.

“Hey,” Castiel said hoarsely.

Dean looked over his shoulder. Castiel was shuffling towards him, his arm bent back to scratch his thatch of russet hair. All he had on were his thin white boxer briefs, and Dean was distracted from the rain long enough to admire what he saw.

“Hey, angel.” Dean gave a brief smile before turning back to the window.

“Why’re you out here?” Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist from behind. “What’s wrong?”

Dean leaned his neck into Castiel’s kiss. Castiel rocked him back and forth as if he were trying to lull him back to sleep.

“Why’re you up already?” Dean murmured.

“I asked first.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean said stubbornly. “And I asked second.”

“I don’t know why. I just opened my eyes and saw you weren’t there.” Castiel stroked his hands over Dean’s midsection. “So, I stumbled out of bed and came looking for you. Your turn.”

Dean sighed. “Just wondering when this rain will stop. Hoping it’ll stop, more accurately.”

“Ah. Worried about the berries?”

Dean nodded, the side of his face rubbing up against Castiel’s.

“Well, staring out at the rain, brooding like a Byronic hero, won’t make it stop any faster.” Castiel kissed his neck again. “You do look pretty sexy doing it, though. Especially from behind. That _Scooby-Doo_ underwear fits you perfectly.”

“Do _Scooby-Doo_ boxers fit a ‘Byronic hero?’ What even is that?”

“Come back to bed and I’ll tell you,” Castiel said.

“Nice try.” Dean laughed. “I don’t do blackmail, though.”

“Do you do begging?” Castiel kissed him a third time. “I can beg.”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“Not once I know what I want, no. I’m indefatigable.”

“‘Indefatigable.’ I love your big…vocabulary.”

“Come on,” Castiel whined. “I’m getting cold here.”

“Alright, alright.”

Dean turned them both around and curled his arm around Castiel’s waist. Once they were behind the bedroom door, he tickled him there, and Castiel yelped.

“It won’t be like this every day,” Dean warned. “It’s just because it’s raining. That’s why I let you win.”

Castiel crashed back into the bed headfirst and glared up at him. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I’m serious, Cass.” Dean crept under the covers and rubbed his back. “The weather will probably be clear by tomorrow, so I’ll be gone when you wake up. And I don’t come back for lunch much during picking season, so you might not see me until dinner.”

“I’ll survive,” Castiel said sullenly. “Somehow.”

“That’s the spirit.” Dean kissed between Castiel’s shoulder blades. “So, what do you feel like doing?”

“Sleeping.”

“You don’t need me here to do that.”

“Cuddling, then. That’s what I meant.”

“Hmm.” Dean fell to his side and stretched out one of his arms. “Alright, come here.”

Castiel wiggled back into him. Dean kissed his nape.

“It’s nice being little spoon,” Castiel said. He already sounded more relaxed.

“Are you usually the big spoon with your guys?”

“I can do either. The nice thing about two men is that we don’t have to fall into archaic gender roles.”

Dean snorted. “You’d be surprised. Some women like being the big spoon.”

“Huh. Well, my last boyfriend…I was a tiny bit taller than him. So I ended up being the big spoon by default at some point, I guess.” Castiel sighed. “He wasn’t much of a Byronic hero. More of a Byronic idiot.”

“Oh, yeah. You said you’d tell me what that means.”

“Yeah. It’s just someone who’s mysterious, brooding, cynical, moody, tortured, lonely. Usually attractive. Often bisexual, like Byron himself.”

“Interesting.”

“Honestly, it doesn’t describe you very well. Other than attractive and bi—” Castiel stopped. “Sorry, I forgot that you weren’t labeling yourself yet.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I just brought it up because of the image of you staring out at the rain. So melodramatic.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I can’t even look out the window without you taking me to English class.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s arm in response.

“And you know what?” Dean tickled Castiel’s navel. “I love that about you.”

“Ah!” Castiel elbowed him. “Stop.”

“You’re the one who wanted me to come back to bed.”

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Funny. I don’t see you pulling away.”

Castiel giggled. They fell into a warm silence. Several minutes passed with only the creaking of the shutters and the spattering of the rain.

“Cass?”

Castiel patted Dean’s forearm. “Yeah?”

“You feel like reading me something?”

“Sure.” Castiel reached for _The Prophet_. “I hope you’ll be better behaved than last time.”

“I was perfectly behaved last time.”

“Right.” He smoothed down the page. “Let’s see…. ‘All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.’”

“Hmm.”

“‘But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor.’” Castiel paused to look over his shoulder at Dean. “That’s right, nakedness.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“‘Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.’”

Castiel closed the book and returned it to the nightstand.

“Is that it?”

“It’s a short section. There’s a lot there, though.” Castiel threaded his fingers between Dean’s. “What did it say to you?”

“Um. That it’s better to not be afraid? Even though love can be scary sometimes.”

Castiel didn’t respond for a few seconds.

“Yeah.” Castiel squeezed his hand. “I think that’s exactly right, Dean.”

“And…that you can’t experience everything if you live in fear. You can’t truly love.”

“You can’t truly _live_ ,” Castiel added.

“Yeah.” Dean swallowed. “Hey, Cass?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for…thanks for asking me what I think. Not many people….” Dean broke off.

“Don’t thank me for that, Dean. Please don’t.”

Dean shook his head.

“You’re so much more than a pretty face, darling. So much more than your father’s hard worker. Sorry, I know you didn’t want me to bring that up again.”

“It’s okay.”

“I know I call you ‘handsome,’ but I didn’t even know what you looked like when I started following your Instagram and your cooking blog. I just loved your food, loved how you wrote about it. Loved the love that came through in every post.” Castiel sighed. “I’m being sappy.”

“It’s fine. I like it.”

“Of course, once I found out that you’re the most beautiful man on the planet, that didn’t hurt.”

“Shut up.” Dean tightened his arms around Castiel’s waist. “I wouldn’t be a farmer if that were true. I’d be a model or an actor or something.”

“A farmer’s much sexier.” Castiel reached back to pat Dean’s butt. “Can we go to sleep again? I still need a few more hours.”

“You go ahead. I only need four.”

“Don’t you want more? Sure you do.” Castiel flipped onto his front, turned his head on the pillow to kiss Dean’s lips. “Of course you do.”

Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut, and Dean swallowed his protest. He lay on his back and reached his hand down to where Castiel’s was at the middle of the bed. Castiel eased into it and sighed.

Dean drifted off, waking with Castiel at noon. They never got into proper clothes; they ate leftovers for lunch and dinner. Dean only worried about how things would change tomorrow once over the course of the day, banishing the thought as quickly as it came.

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On Tuesday morning, Dean was true to his word. He rose before dawn, started his coffee, pulled on his work jeans and flannel shirt. He had his oatmeal and fried egg and drove down to the fields, where some of the workers were already gathered, huddling together with their thermoses of coffee and tea.

The sky was slate-grey for the first few hours of the day, but the sun finally broke through the clouds just before noon. Dean actually breathed a sigh of relief and slumped back against the side of the delivery truck. His solace was short-lived.

It started right as he was finishing his lunch. One of the workers came up to the door of the cab and brought him to a strawberry bed near the middle of the fields, around halfway down the valley. He pointed out what he’d noticed. Dean squatted in the wet dirt and took the leaf in hand.

Brownish lesions on the leaves—dry, papery centers with rings of yellowing tissue. Dead blossoms. And, on a few of the berries themselves, small grayish-black growths, most of them little larger than the strawberry’s own seeds.

The size didn’t matter. There was one direction this went in; fruit infection was irreversible.

Dean spent the next several hours going from bed to bed, checking the plants. Only a few of them showed no signs of gray mold. By the late afternoon, Dean determined that maybe five of the 25 acres of strawberries weren’t infested. He paid the workers for a full day and sent them home early.

When Dean got home, he was still in a daze, still unable to process what had happened. Gray mold was ubiquitous; only the most wet-behind-the-ears fruit farmers had never had their hopes dashed by it. Really, Winchester and Sons had been lucky over the years to have escaped a large outbreak of gray mold. Not only did organic farming mean less fungicidal spraying, but heirloom berries were more vulnerable in other ways—for instance, their atypical sizes and growth habits meant that even experienced pickers sometimes injured the plants during a harvest, creating pathways for the fungus to invade its host.

In the end, though, there was only the cold reality of the situation. To lose at least 80% of his most economically important crop because of one stretch of bad weather wasn’t just financially devastating; it was personally humiliating. This was only Dean’s second full year running things on his own, and he’d presided over the farm’s single largest crop loss in at least 17 years.

He felt like an utter failure.

Once he finished washing up, Dean tore through the living room, stopping for a tumbler in the kitchen before approaching the bar cart. He unstoppered the whiskey, nearly filled his glass, and drank. He sat down at the dining table and stared through the French doors at the early twilight. Crowley rubbed against one of his legs. Dean ignored him.

“Well, Dad.” Dean raised his glass in a mock toast. “I guess I’ve finally disappointed you in every way now. Pandering to strangers on the internet. Sleeping with a gay guy in your bedroom. Letting the farm go under. Hope you’re proud.”

He finished his glass, poured himself another. Some of the liquor splashed onto the hardwood. Dean didn’t bother to clean it up.

He wasn't sure how many minutes went by before Castiel found him. It still wasn’t completely dark outside, so it couldn’t have been more than an hour. All he knew was that it was long enough for the booze to lend his vision that fuzzy, dreamlike quality; for his own voice to sound simultaneously distant and too loud; for the panging in his heart to stop hurting.

“Dean?” Castiel twisted on the dining room chandelier. “I didn’t even know you were home. Why’re you sitting in the dark?”

“‘Cause I want to.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Is that okay with you?”

Castiel tilted his head, sniffed the air. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yeah, genius. Told you you were smart.” Dean knocked back the last drizzle of whiskey and slammed his glass into the table.

“Dean.” Castiel touched his shoulder gingerly. “What happened?”

“Nothing you can do anything about,” Dean said, wrenching away from his hand.

“Okay.” Castiel sat down in the next chair. “How about you tell me anyway?”

“Almost all the strawberries are blighted with gray mold.” Dean rose up and reached for the whiskey again; Castiel watched him in consternation. “It’s a common fungal disease. No strawberries resist it. Flowers die, fruits shrivel. Spreads like wildfire in wet, humid conditions.”

“Like the last five days.”

“Yeah. Well, it was probably already established in some of the beds before that, but the rain would’ve scattered it far and wide. And encouraged it to grow.”

Dean sipped from his glass. He carried the bottle back with him to the table.

“What does this mean?” Castiel said.

“Huh?”

“What happens next? I mean, this obviously sounds bad—”

“What happens next is that the farm loses almost all its revenue from the first half of the year. And I won’t recoup it later, no matter how the other berries do, because strawberries are just too important. What happens next is I’ll have to destroy all the strawberry beds and replant everything somewhere else; I can’t reuse the plots because gray mold stays in the soil. What happens next is I’ll have to figure out whether I can even afford to keep going, because I don’t have a lot of cushion financially.”

“I don’t understand. Don’t you have crop insurance?”

Dean laughed. “Crop insurance?”

“That’s a thing, isn’t it?”

“There’s no federal crop insurance for strawberries unless you farm them in California. Don’t ask me why.”

“How bizarre. Though unsurprising. Farm policy is a total mess.” Castiel glanced at the whiskey bottle. “How much of a hit do you think it’ll be?”

“What?”

“The lost revenue from the strawberries, plus the added cost of replanting everything. What would it take to make you whole?”

Dean peered at him. After a few seconds, Castiel averted his eyes.

“Why the hell are you asking?”

“I’m curious.”

“2.5 million, maybe three.” Dean waved his hand. “I don’t know off the top of my head. Even if I get that kind of loan, I’ll have to pay it back over years and years.”

“Huh.” Castiel stood up, pushed in his chair. “Alright, Dean. That’s enough.”

“Come again?”

“How much did you have before I found you? You’ve almost finished the bottle. This won’t make it better.” Castiel stepped forward, beckoned. “Let me take it.”

“Fuck off, Cass,” Dean slurred. He took the bottle into his arms, cradling it to his chest like a baby. “Fuck you.”

“Dean!”

Dean burst into tears. The bottle fell to the ground, rolled a few times, stopped at the table leg.

“Oh, Dean.” Castiel rubbed back and forth along Dean’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, darling. But it’ll be okay. I promise you.”

“You can’t promise that,” Dean mumbled. “Don’t promise that. You’ll only break my heart.”

“I won’t. I’ll never do that.”

“Cass, please.”

“What? What is it?”

Dean sighed and shook his head. He had no idea what he was asking.

“Alright, let’s get you to the couch. You can sleep it off for bit.”

“I don’t need to sleep it off,” Dean said, though he allowed Castiel to lift him from the chair. “You son of a bitch. I can hold my liquor.”

“I know. Just humor me.”

For a couple seconds, Dean walked with him. Then, he planted his feet, changing his mind. He cried out, flung his hand out at his glass. It flew into the hallway and shattered against the far wall. Crowley sprinted by in a blur.

“Goddammit!” Dean screamed.

Castiel pulled him in and hugged him tight. Dean grasped at his polo shirt, breathed in the warmth of his neck.

“Cass,” Dean whimpered. “I can’t—I don’t—”

“I know, sweetheart.” Castiel soothed his back. “I’ll make it better. I’ll fix this. Don’t worry.”

Dean was too tired to contradict him, too exhausted to point out that he didn’t have power over the soil in the ground, much less the heavens above. He just nodded into Castiel’s shoulder.

“Let me take care of you, Dean. Okay?”

Dean nodded again. “Okay.”

He nudged Dean forward, and they shuffled across the hallway, stepping carefully around the broken glass. Castiel helped Dean onto the couch. He grabbed the throw blanket from the arm by Dean’s feet, unfolded it, and tucked it around Dean carefully. He picked up a cylindrical pillow from one of the armchairs and slid it under Dean’s neck. Dean already felt his eyelids drooping when Castiel kissed his forehead. The last thing he heard before he passed out was Castiel talking into his phone.

“Hello, Bartholomew? This is Castiel.”

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Dean woke up to the chiming of the grandfather clock next to the library door. He rubbed his bleary eyes and counted.

“Twelve,” Dean muttered. Great, he’d slept for four hours.

He heaved himself upright and looked around. The wind was back, slapping the shutters against the sides of the house, though at least it didn’t sound like it’d brought much rain with it. Crowley was asleep in his cat bed, but Castiel was nowhere to be found. Dean thought about the things he’d said to him and groaned. He’d acted like a complete mess; there was no other word for it.

Well, there were a few other words for it, but Dean hoped that Castiel would be forgiving enough to not call him any of them.

“Cass?” Dean said. His voice came out husky and thin.

After a moment, Dean staggered up and made his way to the library. He pushed on the open door. It was dark inside. Dean looked around the living room again, as if searching a second time would make Castiel appear.

“Cass?”

He shrugged and walked to the mudroom. If he had to go searching for him, he might as well try to make himself a bit more presentable. Not only did he reek of booze, but he probably had the worst kind of bedhead from passing out drunk on a couch that was just slightly too short for his body.

In the downstairs bathroom, Dean pissed, washed his face, and took several long drinks of water from the faucet. He smeared down his hair into something presentable. His bloodshot eyes stared back at him, and he averted his gaze to the porcelain sink guiltily. He tried not to drink like John had, tried not to make a fool of himself in the same way. Cursing, screaming, throwing things—Dean wasn’t like that, or at least that’s what he told himself. He just hoped he hadn’t scared Castiel off.

Dean started his search for Castiel. He walked around the first floor slowly. The pleasant effects of the drink had all but worn off, leaving behind a headache, mild vertigo, and blurred edges to his vision. Also, his stomach was growling. He hadn’t had any dinner.

“Cass?”

Dean climbed the steps to the second floor. He felt a spark of hope in his chest. Maybe Castiel was lying in bed, waiting for him to sleep off the whiskey, clean himself up, and join him. Dean smiled faintly as he turned at the end of the hallway, but the hazy murmur of Castiel’s bass from the other side of the house stopped him in his tracks.

He was in Dean’s old room.

Dean slunk down the hallway towards the sound of Castiel’s voice. Who was he talking to at midnight? And why was he back in his own room rather than in Dean’s? Dean felt something like heartburn rising in his throat as his mind spun out the possibilities. Was he done with him? Did he not feel safe anymore? Dean didn’t remember hitting him while he was drunk, but John sometimes hadn’t remembered either.

Dean reached the bedroom door. It was fully closed, not ajar, which made Dean even more certain that Castiel didn’t intend for him to hear this conversation. Oh well. He’d come too far to turn back now.

“Anyway, it’s still nice to see you, Castiel,” an unfamiliar voice said. “In spite of the late hour.”

“Well, I figured the least I could do when needing a favor like this was to ask you to your face.” Castiel cleared his throat. “A friend of mine needs some help. I want to use some of my money to help him.”

“Then do so. You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

“Apparently not. Don’t be obtuse, Father. I wouldn’t be calling you if this could come from my quarterly allowance. It’s something Bartholomew needs to authorize.”

Castiel’s father sniffed. After a moment: “How much?”

“Three million.”

“What on earth could you need three million dollars for at the drop of a hat? Who is this friend?”

Castiel didn’t answer right away.

“Ah. I see.”

“Yes, he’s my boyfriend.”

“This is the exact reason we have Bartholomew. To force you and your brothers to be prudent. Three million dollars? You aren’t even married. What kind of mess is he in that he needs that kind of money?”

“It’s not his fault. An act of God hobbled his business. Insurance won’t cover enough of his losses because of the vagaries of federal law. Do you really want to hear all the details? Will that even affect your decision?”

“I’m not even sure what you’re asking me, specifically, to do.”

“I asked Bartholomew for an exception to my spendthrift clause for this. He won’t grant it. I want you to overrule him.”

“You know I can’t do that. That’s not how it works. I’m not a trustee.”

“It’s your money.”

“No,” his father said testily. “It’s _your_ money. That’s the whole reason it’s in a trust.”

“Not until I’m 35.”

“Yes. And that’s for your own protection. Just like the spendthrift clause.”

Castiel sighed loudly. His chair creaked.

“The entire point of setting up the trusts the way I did is so each of you would be cared for in case something happens to me. Can you imagine if Luke or Gabe had had free rein to toss millions of dollars at anything they wanted when they were younger?”

“I’m less than two years away! You make it sound as if I’m still 18 or something!”

“That isn’t the best argument you could make,” his father said. For the first time, there was an edge to his voice. “Considering what happened back then.”

Castiel was silent. Dean felt his breaths quicken. What had happened back then?

“If you fritter away your inheritance on passing fancies—”

“Dean isn’t a passing fancy. I love him.”

A soft gasp tumbled from Dean’s mouth. He leaned against the wall, feeling unsteady. There was a long silence on the other side of the door.

“You love him?” his father said evenly.

“Yes. And I know you don’t approve of me—”

“Don’t you dare pull that card with me, Castiel. Don’t you dare. I’ve never treated you differently from your brothers because of—because you’re….”

“I’m not talking about money, Father. See, you can’t even say it.”

“How long have you known him?” his father said, apparently just deciding to move on.

“Long enough to know I love him.”

“How long?”

“A month and a half. Maybe a little less.”

His father gave a dismissive flutter of his lips.

“That’s infatuation, not love. You’ve always been this way. Any charity case with a sad story and a pretty smile turns your head. Too much heart was always your problem.”

“This is what I mean about you treating me differently. If he were some rich Connecticut girl who went to Milton and Harvard, you wouldn’t bat an eyelid at the speed of things. How quickly did Luke and Jo get together?”

“I was hardly over the moon about that pairing, either. And Jo didn’t need a multimillion-dollar bailout before there was even an engagement.”

“Because Jo was born into wealth; Dean wasn’t. We’re going around in circles at this point.”

“We’re going around in circles because you’re choosing to be angry at me instead of listening. By design, I can’t overrule Bartholomew. It’s in how the trust was set up.”

“Then I guess that’s that,” Castiel said bitterly.

Dean heard the desk chair roll and squeak on the carpet. Quickly, quietly, he crept back to the staircase. His own grace of movement surprised him, given the residual alcohol in his veins.

Once he was downstairs, he splashed water on his face in the bathroom mirror again. His hands were trembling, and he spent a long time blinking at his reflection, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. Finally, he dried his face and shuffled back to the living room couch, falling into its embrace in a stupor. He closed his eyes.

Not much of this was a surprise, Dean supposed. He’d suspected—assumed, really—that Castiel was well-off for some time now. And the strange way he and his father communicated, simmering with pain and resentment and yet not completely devoid of affection and care, was pretty much how Dean had figured Castiel would relate to him, given the things he’d said. Actually, once one stripped away the New England accents and the unnecessary vocabulary, it wasn’t that different from how he’d talked to John in his later years.

Dean was still mulling over that last point when he heard Castiel walk down the stairs, enter the kitchen, and clink some dishes and silverware on the countertops. The microwave ran for a couple minutes; Castiel opened the door before it finished. The floorboards just inside the living room doorway squeaked.

“Dean?” Castiel said softly. He cleared his throat. “Dean?”

Dean took in a breath, scrunched his eyes open. He stretched and grinned.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Castiel sat on the couch next to Dean’s waist and smiled back at him. “I made you something.”

Dean peered at the bowl in Castiel’s hands skeptically. “You cooked?”

“That’s a strong word, but—” Castiel placed the bowl on one of the coasters. “It’s my anti-hangover bean dip. Got me through a few tough weekends in college.”

“Huh.” Dean sat up a little. “Well, if you vouch for it.”

Castiel pulled open the bag of tortilla chips in his lap and handed it to Dean. “Try it. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

He jogged to the kitchen. There was the tinkling of glassware, the running of the faucet. Dean scooped up some of the bean dip; it was still hot, so he blew on it a little before bringing it to his mouth.

“Mmm.” Dean reached for another chip. “Maybe it’s just because I’m starving, but this is awesome.”

Castiel returned with the water and held it up to Dean’s mouth. Dean took a small sip.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Dean sat up fully, gathering the bowl and the bag of tortilla chips into his lap. “What’s in it?”

“A can of refried beans, some melty cheese, salsa, jalapeños from the jar, a little sour cream.” Castiel rubbed Dean’s thigh. “How’re you feeling?”

Dean swallowed. He swirled the chip in his hand through the bean dip until it snapped in half.

“I don’t know. I’m—I’m sorry for how I acted earlier. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t usually drink that much. I don’t let myself get that way. Throwing things—” Dean felt his eyes prickle. “I don’t do that. You have to believe me, Cass. Please.”

“Hey.” Castiel squeezed his arm. “I said it’s okay.”

“I’m not like my dad. I’m not.”

“I know.” Castiel stroked his thumb over Dean’s cheek. “I wish you’d talked to me instead of getting shitfaced, but I know you’re not a violent person. You’re a loving person. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean nuzzled into Castiel’s hand. “Yeah, okay.”

“How’s your head?”

“It’s….” Dean rubbed his neck. “Honestly, it’s spinning.”

“Want me to get you an aspirin or something?”

“I don’t mean that.”

“Ah.” Castiel gazed over Dean’s shoulder, out through the French doors. “You mean figuratively. Yeah, the whole situation with the farm must be weighing on you.”

“I’m not talking about that, either.”

Castiel tilted his head. Dean placed the bowl and the bag of chips on the coffee table.

“Cass. Is there something you want to tell me?”

Castiel searched Dean’s eyes. He sighed.

“So, that _was_ you I heard in the hallway earlier, and not just the house being creaky.” He snorted. “Nice performance, by the way. Pretending to be asleep when I walked in.”

“Don’t get pissy with me. You’re the one who’s going behind my back. Asking people for handouts for me. Keeping secrets.”

“Fair enough. I guess you want me to explain a few things, then?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Castiel nodded slowly. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts.

“And I want to know everything. No weaselly politician stuff. If you want this—us—to go anywhere, you’ve got to look me in the eye, and level with me, and tell me what’s going on.”

“Okay.” Castiel turned to face him, crossing his legs on the couch. “I guess I better start at the beginning, then.”

Dean held his breath. Even the howling wind outside seemed to go still for a moment, the shutters falling silent.

“Dean.” Castiel looked down. “My name isn’t Castiel Kline.”

“Okay.”

Castiel furrowed his brow. “Okay?”

“Yeah. I sort of figured—I mean, Castiel doesn’t even sound like a real name. It’s one of those New Age things people do when they turn 18. Like renaming yourself Zephyr or Rainbow. Your real name’s probably Steve or something, right?”

Castiel laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you, Dean, but Castiel is, indeed, the name I was given by my parents. It’s on my birth certificate from St. Elizabeth’s Hospital and everything.”

“Then….”

“My name is Castiel Shurley. My father is Charles Shurley.”

“Uh.” Dean scratched his neck. “Okay?”

Castiel looked momentarily puzzled.

“He’s one of the best-selling authors in Christian fiction. He also writes secular pulp novels under the name Carver Edlund, though those books aren’t quite as successful.” Castiel paused. “He’s also a billionaire.”

Dean blinked. “Billionaire?”

“Yes, although almost all of his money was inherited from my mother. She was the heiress to the fortune of one of New England’s largest textile companies, back when we still made things there.”

Dean squeezed the side of his head. The room swam and swayed.

“I don’t use my father’s name because it’s fairly recognizable, and I’d prefer to not be associated with him and his money for a number of reasons. I also…haven’t always had a close relationship with my family. It’s a little better these days, but—” Castiel broke off. “Are you okay? Do you want me to get you anything?”

“I’m fine,” Dean lied. “I just wish you’d told me sooner. You think any of this would’ve changed how I feel about you?”

“No, but I didn’t always know you as well as I do now. And if it wouldn’t have changed anything, why does it matter that I didn’t tell you sooner?”

“You have to ask that?”

Castiel tilted his head.

“I’m not going to logic you, okay? This is about honesty. You’re living in my home, sleeping in my bed, and you didn’t even trust me enough to tell me who you really were. That’s messed up and you know it.”

Castiel looked away at the fireplace and exhaled.

“It sounds so simple when you say it like that.”

“You know what? It is simple, Cass. No matter what, I want you to be honest with me. I don’t want secrets between us. That’s the fastest way to ruin what we have.”

After a long time, Castiel gave a slow nod.

“Well, I hope you still feel that way once I tell you the rest of it.”

“The—the rest of it?”

Castiel turned to him again. “I told you that my name isn’t Castiel Kline. But there’s a reason I go by that name.”

For the first time since he’d sat down, Castiel didn’t just meet Dean’s gaze. He peered straight into it, the light in his eyes and the set of his jaw defiant. Proud.

“Kline is my son’s last name.”

Dean gulped down on nothing. A gust hit one of the upstairs shutters, slamming it into the window frame with a violent thwack.

“Your son?” Dean said. His voice came out incredulous, even unnerved. He hadn’t intended for it to be.

“Yes. His name is Jack. His mother’s family’s last name is Kline. Jack Alexander Charles Kline.”

“Is he…yours?”

“You mean, did I sire him?”

Dean just stared.

“I’m his biological father, yes. Even if I weren’t, would it matter? He’d still be my son, adopted or not.”

“No, of course it wouldn’t matter. It’s just…you’re gay.”

“Very much so,” Castiel said, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth’s edge. “I have the membership card and everything.”

“But you—how did you—”

“Remember how I told you that it took me until my last year of high school to come to terms with my identity? Well, it wasn’t the easiest journey to get there. I had a couple years where I was dating girls but constantly thinking about guys. Honestly, I knew from the first time I kissed and touched another boy that it was different—completely different. But I was terrified to admit it.”

Dean nodded. He picked up the bowl of bean dip and scooped a chip into it. Anything to steady himself.

“That first time—I was 16; he was a day student in the year above me. Dirty blond hair, light eyes. A smile that could charm the pants off anyone.” Castiel rubbed his thumb over the back of Dean’s hand. “I guess I have a type.”

Dean pulled his hand away. “Day student?”

“A local kid who attended the school and went home in the afternoon. I was a boarder; most of the students were. The Academy’s in Massachusetts, so it’s not like I could get on a bus and be back in time for dinner.”

“‘The Academy.’” Dean pinched his forehead. “Jesus.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just keep going.”

“Well, he and I were friends and more for the better part of my junior year. He never wanted to label himself, but I pretty much knew by the time summer rolled around that I was gay. I started saying it to the few close friends I had. Foolishly, I thought I was ready to say it to my family.” Castiel sighed. “Rafe was in his second year at Yale Law at the time, so he picked me up on his way home. He walked in on me kissing Tommy goodbye in my room.”

“He wasn’t cool with it?”

“Um, no. ‘Cool with it’ is the opposite of how I’d describe Rafe along any axis.” Castiel retrieved a chip from the bag; Dean held out the bowl to him. “He freaked out, threatened he’d beat Tommy up if he ever came near me again, and then lectured me for the entire five-hour drive back to the island. How I was just acting out and being a rebel like always; how I was only doing this to get our father to pay attention to me; how men would take advantage of me just to get to our family’s money; how I’d eventually get AIDS and die horribly.”

“What?” Dean scowled. “Fuck him. I know he’s your brother, but…yeah, fuck him.”

Castiel snorted. “In the end, he cowed me. He promised to not tell the rest of our family what he’d seen if I promised to not look at boys anymore. I told myself that it wasn’t that bad; after all, I’d dated girls. Maybe I could just go back to that. So, I did.”

Dean shook his head. He saw where this was going.

“Kelly’s family lived a little ways up the coast from Camden, near the bridge to Greater Providence Island. I met her through some family friends that summer, at a Fourth of July party. We started dating. I slept with her once, at the end of August, a few days before I went back to Massachusetts—the first and only time I’ve had sex with a woman. Once was enough.”

“To know you were definitely gay?”

“Well, yes. And to conceive Jack.”

“Oh,” Dean said sheepishly. “Right.”

“I didn’t even find out that she had been pregnant until after Jack was born. Her parents and my father apparently came to some agreement that I wasn’t to know because it would cause problems for me in my last year of school. My dad set up both Kelly and Jack for life to secure the Klines’s silence. One of the reasons he and I don’t have the best relationship to this day.”

“Cass—” Dean chuckled in disbelief. “Damn, man. I’ve heard about some crazy families, but yours might take the cake.”

“There’s no dysfunction like New England WASP dysfunction.” Castiel emitted a laugh that fell like a thud. “Jack was born the week of my senior finals. I did the math later with Kelly; I think I was in the middle of my AP French exam when he came into the world.”

“When’d you find out?”

“At my graduation. My father told me over dinner at a fancy restaurant in downtown Boston, just him and me. I felt like the world had disintegrated under my feet. I’d already accepted the offer from Bowdoin, I had a summer internship lined up, I was finally comfortable with my sexuality. And then I found out that I was a father with an infant son and that my family had kept his existence a secret from me for almost half a year.”

“Cass, I—I can’t imagine.”

“Dean—” Castiel grimaced. “I know you wanted honesty from me, and I think I’ve given that to you. But could we talk about this more some other time? These memories—they’re not happy ones. The ones I have of Jack, sure. I love him more than anything in this world. But my father, and Rafe—”

“Yeah.” Dean returned the food to the coffee table, drank the rest of his water. “Yeah, Cass.”

“Thank you.” He indicated the empty bowl. “And I’m glad you liked the food.”

“I might have to get you to cook more,” Dean said.

Castiel laughed. Dean almost joined him. Then, he remembered what had launched them into this entire conversation to begin with.

“Cass, there’s something else. That conversation I listened in on. Was it what it sounded like?”

“Well, I don’t know how much you heard. You mentioned something about handouts.”

“I heard you talking to your dad. Asking him for—for money for me.”

“That isn’t exactly right. I was asking him to overrule my trustee so that I could loan you the money you need from my inheritance. I’d just give it to you, but something tells me you’d throw it back in my face.”

“Well, you know me that well, at least.”

Castiel sighed. “You agreed to let me take care of you.”

“I agreed—” Dean batted at the bag of tortilla chips. “I thought you meant something like this, Cass! Not three million dollars!”

“That really wouldn’t be that much for my family.” Castiel wrung his hands together. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right.”

“At least he turned you down,” Dean said, after a beat. “I still don’t like that you asked him, but at least we can move past it now.”

“Actually—” Castiel looked down at the carpet. “If you’d stayed and eavesdropped a while longer, you would’ve heard the rest of what he said. He can’t overrule Bartholomew, but he’s offering to give you the money from his own accounts. I’ll pay him back in a couple years.”

“No.” Dean sprang up. “Fuck no.”

“It’s just an option, something to—”

“It’s not an option.” Dean paced to the fireplace, the grandfather clock, back to the coffee table. “I can’t believe you, Cass. Hearing what your father did back then, I can’t believe you’d let him back into your life. _Our_ life. I can’t believe you didn’t ask me about any of this first—hell, even tell me who the fuck you were first. And I can’t believe you’re making me, my family’s farm, into your new—your new cause. Your new project.”

Castiel stared up at him. “What?”

“Your new pet cause. To satisfy your whole messiah complex. The malaria, the homeless shelters, the poor seniors, the refugees—I’m just the next thing, right? The next thing you can save?”

“No.” Castiel stood up, reached for Dean’s shoulder. Dean yanked away. “You don’t mean that.”

“The hell I don’t.” Dean clenched his jaw. “You’ve lied about other things. Why should I believe you?”

“Dean, you know that’s not what you are to me. You have to know that.” Castiel wiped the tears from his eyes and shook his head. “You have to.”

“All I know is that you’re saying I can’t keep this place going without you stepping in. You’re saying I failed my family. Well, guess what? I’ve done just fine on my own so far. I’ve done really well, actually.”

“Of course you have. That’s not what I’m saying at all.” Castiel took another step towards him; Dean crossed his arms. “I know I should’ve talked to you first, but I just wanted to help. Wanted to take care of you. I don’t know why you’re being like this.”

“Because I don’t need you to save me!” Dean shouted.

His voice cracked on the penultimate word. Castiel stared, unblinking, as if Dean had struck him across the face.

“Well, I don’t think there’s anything left to say tonight.”

Castiel looked down, hesitating just long enough to find Dean’s eyes again. He turned to leave. Dean swallowed.

“Where’re you going?”

“I’m going to bed, Dean.” Castiel paused in the doorway to the hall. “In your old room. If that’s okay.”

He waited for several seconds. Dean’s eyes darted around frantically, seeking some way to slow him, to make him stay, but he couldn’t form his mouth around the words to do so.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Castiel trudged up the staircase. Dean listened to his heavy footfalls while clenching and unclenching his fists. Once the door upstairs finally closed, he let out a long, shuddering sob.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Prebranac

_10,000 subscribers!_

_I just sat back from my keyboard and thought about that. To go from my first video in April, when I was petrified to even be on camera, to 10k actual people watching me make the food I love is…surreal. Humbling. And it all happened in less than a month and a half. I still get nervous when I’m filming, but knowing that there are people out there making these recipes, sharing them with their friends and family, makes it all worth it._

_Of course, I couldn’t have done any of it alone. Aside from you lovely folks, I have my brother to thank for his encouragement and help with the videos. And then there’s my friend Castiel. Without him, I wouldn’t have reached even half the people I have. I feel lucky to have him in my life. In many ways._

_(Those of you who leave spicy comments on my Instagram posts…feel free to interpret that last part however you like. Have a field day. 😉)_

_Prebranac is a dish from Southeast Europe that delivers a huge amount of flavor and nutrition with a small number of ingredients. It’s the perfect warm, comforting dish for a rainy day at home, and the perfect partner for a loaf of crusty bread._

_Here’s to the next 10,000!_

Cook time: 2 hours

Serves 4

4 cans butter beans, drained and rinsed

3 large onions (about 3/4 pound), peeled and diced

1 large/2 small leeks, white and light green parts washed well and chopped roughly*

4 cloves garlic, minced

1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

7 bay leaves

1 tablespoon smoked paprika

1 tablespoon paprika**

1½ teaspoons salt

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

Add the oil and onions to a Dutch oven. Heat on medium heat for about 10 minutes, until onions start to turn translucent. Mix in the leeks and cook for another 5 minutes, then mix in the garlic, bay leaves, paprika, and smoked paprika. Cook for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are soft and have lost most of their moisture. If any of the vegetables start to stick to the bottom, lower the heat to medium low.

Add the beans and salt to the Dutch oven and mix well. Fill the Dutch oven with hot water up to the top of the vegetables—they should be wet, but not swimming. Bake for 90 minutes uncovered, until the top of the casserole is nicely browned and caramelized. Let cool for at least 15 minutes before serving.

Serve with bread and a cabbage salad.

*What I like to do is cut off the base about 1/3 inch from the bottom and slice off the top right in the middle of the leek’s light-green section. Then, I slice the leek in half lengthwise and chop each half into 1/2 inch wide semicircles. Finally, I immerse the chopped leeks in water and agitate them a little. That way, I know I’m getting all the dirt out.

**You can use all smoked paprika if you like, though I’d reduce the total paprika to 1½ tablespoons if you do so.


	14. Vegan Puttanesca

_Thank you. Your appointment for 3:30 p.m. on Wednesday, June 5, 2019, has been confirmed._

The coffeemaker groaned to completion. Dean closed his bank’s webpage and made his way to the counter. Outside, the arms of the oak trees were already cradling the pink dawn. It looked like it would be a clear, hot day.

Dean would’ve spat out a bitter laugh at that irony if he weren’t so tired.

With so little left to pick, Dean had told the workers not to show up until 6:30 today, an hour later than usual. That was an unintended mercy. Not only had he had a restless night’s sleep, but his head still hurt from too much whiskey. He was glad for that. He deserved it for how he’d acted.

Dean closed his eyes and savored the first sip of coffee.

After more than an hour of tossing and turning last night, he’d concluded that he’d overreacted. He hadn’t forgiven Castiel yet—that was still a ways off—but the way he’d lashed out had been wrong. Then again, he’d never been the best at controlling his anger.

Maybe he should’ve stopped him. Maybe they could’ve talked things through, worked things out. Or, maybe he was too angry. Maybe he would’ve pushed him away for good, if he hadn’t already. Maybe a night apart had been for the best.

Dean sighed, refilled his cup. He’d never been good with this aspect of relationships. That was probably one of the reasons a serious one was so rare for him.

His thoughts were interrupted by Crowley meowing at him from the doorway to the front hall.

“What?” Dean grunted.

Crowley meowed again, long and mournful.

“Oh, crap.” Dean put down his coffee and walked to the mudroom, Crowley leading the way. “I forgot to feed you last night, didn’t I? Damn whiskey. You shouldn’t have let me drink that much, Crowley.”

Dean bent down to look through the cabinet under the mudroom sink. Crowley peered into the darkness along with him.

“Hmm. Looks like we’re out of cans, but we have some of this.”

Dean shook the bag of dry food above Crowley, who stared up at him with a blank look.

“Hey, it’s been a while since you tried it. Maybe you’ll like it this time.” Dean filled Crowley’s bowl with pellets. “Don’t be spoiled. This is all we have right now.”

Crowley sniffed the rim of the bowl, then stalked away with his tail held low, snapping back and forth.

“What, you’re mad at me too now?” Dean crinkled up the bag and returned it to the cabinet. “Can’t do anything right around here, I guess.”

He’d have to stop at the store for cat food on the way back from the bank, then. Dean fished his phone from his jeans and checked Kevin’s work schedule. With his finals over, he was doing afternoons with Dean a few days a week now, Wednesdays among them. Dean was already counting on him to look after things while he was at the bank, but with a trip to the supermarket tacked on, he might need him to stay until the workers went home.

 _Hey_ , Dean texted. _Can you take care of paying the workers at the end of the day? I might be out longer than I thought._

Dean finished his coffee and took care of his breakfast dishes. As he dried his hands, the plastic tub of apple blossom granola caught his eye. He placed it at the corner of the island so that Castiel would see it, as he had every morning before.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Work that morning felt oddly similar to any other day. Once Dean explained the restrictions on picking—only the southernmost five acres could be harvested; a strict quarantine around the infected strawberries had to be maintained—the pickers went about their task with minimal fuss. Dean gathered four of the workers to help him with setting up a perimeter around the lost crop, sending them home to shower at midday so that they wouldn’t track any spores into the healthy acres when they rejoined the others.

Sam texted him while he was having lunch on his truck’s tailgate, wilting under the sun for penance. Dean wiped the sweat from his neck and growled in irritation.

_So_ _😏_

_How’s it going with Cass? What’ve you been up to?_

_Do I want to know?_

_Leave me alone, Sammy._

_Not in the mood._

_Screw you!_

_With all the helicoptering you did with my girlfriends, you think you’re getting off that easy?_

_I mean, you broke into my and Jess’s apartment to make sure I wasn’t having an allergic reaction to Halloween candy that one year._

_I had to convince her you weren’t an oversexed creep._

_Which wasn’t completely off the mark back then…._

_I’m not in the mood for this._

_Seriously._

_Go thumb some briefs or whatever it is you do._

_Okay, what happened?_

_Did you say something to piss him off again?_

_I like how you instantly think it’s my fault._

_Thanks for the support._

_I don’t know what to think, since you haven’t told me anything._

_Okay._

_He hasn’t been honest with me. He lied about who he was._

_Did you know he’s loaded?_

_Uh, I sort of suspected, yeah._

_He has an entire house to himself in Mount Pleasant._

_As a student._

_That means rich parents. Seriously rich._

_Why the hell didn’t you tell me?_

_?_

_Because that’s between you and him? Because it’s not that big a deal?_

_Why’re you so mad about it?_

_What do you mean, why?_

_He came into my room and he played me._

_His name isn’t even his name._

_His name is Castiel Shurley._

_Wait, as in Charles Shurley?_

_I love his books!_

_“Raised From Perdition” is one of my favorite novels!_

_Can you stay focused?_

_On what?_

_He lied to me._

_Kind of a bigger deal than you nerding out over his dad’s books._

_Yeah, I guess._

_But he told you the truth, didn’t he?_

_Once I forced him to, yeah._

_Think of it this way: it’s better that it all came out now._

_When you only just got together, I mean._

_Besides, I bet he had his reasons._

_And I bet you want to forgive him 😇_

_Yeah, I do._

_But…I don’t know._

_It’s not just that. There’s other stuff._

_Like what?_

Dean pressed his fingertips into his throbbing temple. He’d have to tell Sam about the farm and Castiel’s attempted loan eventually, but he didn’t want to explain the whole situation to him right now. He’d worry and want to transfer money and possibly even cancel his vacation to California so he could spend his time off at home on the farm instead. Sam always looked forward to his trips back to the West Coast, and Dean didn’t want to deprive him of this one. Better for him to enjoy himself than for both of them to be miserable.

_Never mind._

_I have to get back to work. Been sitting around too long._

_Okay._

_Just talk to him._

_And let me know how it goes._

_😊_

_I’ll text you soon._

_And…thanks._

Dean sighed as he returned his phone to his jeans pocket. Yeah, just talk to him. Like it was that easy.

Then again, it wasn’t like there were any other options. He’d have to apologize eventually. The thing he still had to figure out was whether he and Castiel could just go back to the way they’d been once amends were made. Dean wasn’t sure he could do that right away. He’d gotten swept up in the euphoria of falling for a new person and placed too much faith in him too quickly; now he felt burned. He wasn’t sure whether it was his pride or his trust that smarted. He supposed that was what he had to decide before they had a conversation.

Dean cleaned the crumbs from his lap and hefted the truck’s tailgate shut. He still had a couple hours of work left before his appointment.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Dean returned to the house just after two. Castiel wasn’t in the library—at least, Dean thought he wasn’t. He was too apprehensive to knock on the library door, instead just standing outside for a minute, listening. Before he headed up the stairs, he left the keys to the delivery truck on the sideboard in the front hall.

When he got out of the shower, Dean had a text from Kevin waiting on his phone.

_Sorry, running late. I should be there in half an hour or so?_

_I left the keys on the table in the hallway_ , Dean wrote back. _The money’s in the truck’s glove compartment._

_I know lol. You always put it there._

Dean smiled and picked out his charcoal suit. He got dressed with an eye on the clock, smoothing down his sleeves, plucking his red tie from the dresser, checking his appearance in the closet mirror. He tried to smile.

“Fake it till you make it,” Dean said to his reflection. “I guess that didn’t work out so well for me when it came to being straight, but—”

Dean broke off when he heard the faint sound of a door from the other side of the house. He walked out to the hallway.

“Cass?”

Castiel walked into view, holding a towel around his waist. He looked Dean up and down.

“Hello, Dean. I just—” he jerked his chin in the direction of his bathroom. “Got out of the shower.”

“Yeah.” Dean licked his lips. “I, um, figured.”

“You….” Castiel gestured with his free hand. “You look nice.”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Are you…meeting someone?”

“Yeah. Wait, no. I’m just going—going to my bank. I have an appointment.”

Castiel blinked.

“For the farm,” Dean continued. “Just talking to them about my financial options.”

“I see.” Castiel smiled tightly. “Well, good luck with that. I better get dressed. Need to get started on the research.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them moved for several seconds. Through the open door at the end of the hallway, Dean could see the curtains above his old bed drifting in the warm breeze.

“I, um.” Castiel looked down. “I actually have to go to your room to get my suitcase. I forgot to grab it last night. When I….”

“Oh.” Dean stepped to the side. “Go ahead.”

“I didn’t know you’d be back during the day. You usually—”

“It’s—it’s fine. You can get dressed in my room. Take as long as you need. I’m heading out, anyway.”

Castiel nodded as he hurried past. He paused before he got to Dean’s door.

“I’ll move my stuff out before you get back,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. His voice was barely audible.

“Cass.” Dean shook his head. “You don’t—I’m not—”

“It’s okay, Dean. I know I’ve hurt you.” Castiel turned around to face him again. “I know I’ve broken your trust. It’s my fault. I was so used to hiding who I am, I convinced myself that the truth of my name, my family, was nothing of import.”

“Not of import?” Dean scoffed.

“It was the same with the loan. I didn’t think anything of it. For something as significant to me as your livelihood, it just didn’t enter my mind to second-guess my course of action.”

“Cass. I’m—” Dean checked his watch. “Crap, I need to get out of here. I’m going to be late for that appointment.”

“Right.” Castiel cleared his throat. “That’s more important. I’m sorry for delaying you.”

“That’s not—I didn’t mean it that way, man.”

“Dean. Do you….” Castiel looked at the floor again. “Do you want me to leave before you get home? I can get a taxi—”

“No!” Dean yelled.

Castiel flinched; his towel nearly slipped.

“Dammit, Cass. Just stop.”

Castiel peered at him. “You’re angry.”

“Yes, I’m angry. Because you’re steamrolling me right now. I’m heading out the door and you’re dropping even more on me than you already have.”

“That…wasn’t my intention. I just thought you might want some space, some time—”

“How about you stop assuming what I want?”

Castiel nodded again. “Yeah. Sorry, Dean.”

“Just—” Dean sighed. “Just chill here until I get home. We’ll talk tonight. I’ll make us dinner.”

“Okay. That…sounds nice.”

“I got you some frozen burritos the last time I went to the store. So you have something for lunch.”

“My favorite.” Castiel snorted. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t want you forgetting to eat.”

For a second, Castiel looked as if he were about to cry. Then, he pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

“I better—” He forced a laugh. “I’m actually getting kind of cold.”

“Yeah. And I better get to the bank.”

Castiel disappeared into Dean’s bedroom. Dean watched until the door clicked shut, pressing his palms to his forehead when he was finally alone in the hallway. He spared a moment for a long exhale before hurrying down the stairs. He’d have to break the speed limit going down the hill.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Dean’s bank branch was located in the same shopping center by the interstate as his normal grocery store. He’d usually be happy for that bit of efficiency, but today he found himself wishing for excuses to stay out doing errands, reasons to delay his return home as long as possible. It felt as if there wasn’t an obvious right thing to do, not for the farm and not for his relationship with Castiel. No matter how he felt about him, he didn’t want lies or pity from his partner, and Castiel had given him both.

As for the farm—well, that should’ve been the easy part. The only thing to do was buck up, walk into the bank for his meeting, and make his case. No deep deliberation required. So why was Dean leaning against Baby in the parking lot, staring down at his crossed arms, watching the time until his appointment tick away on his watch?

Dean sighed. He had less than five minutes left, and he only felt more unsure with each passing second. He patted his phone, considered calling Sam. Maybe he’d have some advice on what to do about the farm. Asking him for help felt like admitting defeat, but Dean didn’t think he could go through this alone any longer.

Before Dean could make up his mind, a voice called out to him.

“Yoohoo! Winchester and Son!”

The driver of the car next to his waved. She was loading groceries into her trunk. It took Dean a few seconds to remember where he’d met her.

“Oh, hello Mrs. Baker.”

“Mildred,” she corrected. “Oh my, you look just as woebegone as the last afternoon we saw each other. And we’re not trapped in one of those stuffy business luncheons this time.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“Life’s too short for that.” She bent down for a 24-pack of soda. “What’s the matter, dear?”

“Hang on, let me give you a hand.”

Dean pushed away from the Impala and walked to Mildred’s cart. She made way for him, beaming.

“And they say chivalry’s dead.”

“Well, I have a soft spot for young ladies who hate going to the annual networking lunch as much as I do.” Dean grunted as he placed the cubes of soda in the corner of Mildred’s trunk. “You having a party or something?”

“Of a sort. We’ve got a performance at the VFW hall tonight.”

“Patsy Cline tribute band, right.” Dean placed the rest of Mildred’s groceries beside the soda. “That explains the getup.”

“Oh, this?” Mildred flicked the fringe of her white denim jacket. “I wear this to work, too. Just left early to pick up a few refreshments before heading down to the venue.”

“I know we’re in Winchester, but—you don’t get sick of it? Owning a Patsy Cline gift shop, performing in a tribute band in your spare time?”

“Not once in the last 48 years.” Mildred closed the trunk. “Who knows? Maybe this’ll be the year. That’s when I’ll know it’s time to retire.”

48 years. Dean gazed at the highway, weighing the thought of spending the next half-century doing the same thing. The very idea felt impossibly huge. He couldn’t begin to get his arms around it.

“Anyway, enough about me. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Huh?”

“The reason for your gloomy face.”

“It’s—” Dean glanced at the bank, then his watch, then the grocery store. “It’s a long story.”

“Then give me the short version. We both have places to be, after all.”

Dean looked down at the pavement and swallowed. He shook his head.

“Ah.” Mildred rubbed his shoulder. “It’s girl trouble, isn’t it?”

“Uh…something like that.”

“It’s obvious now. Boys your age always have one thing on their minds.”

Dean gave a small laugh. “I’m 30.”

“And you look great! Not as great as yours truly, but that’s not exactly a fair competition.”

“Well, you got me there.” Dean shrugged at Mildred’s expectant smile. “Short version is, I really like this…person, but we’re from completely different worlds. I don’t even know why they like me. I’m nothing special. I’m just a farmer who never even finished high school. And….”

“And?”

“And they’ve been lying to me. About some big stuff. I mean, we talked it through, I know it all now, but…I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t respect me enough, trust me enough, to be straight with. Uh, no pun intended.”

Mildred blinked. “Pun?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, I may not be privy to all the details, but there’s one thing I know for certain. You’ve fallen hard for this person.”

Dean rubbed his cheek, hoping to hide the color there.

“Really? I mean, I’ve only told you like five sentences….”

“Oh, honey. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years on the road, it’s when somebody’s pining for somebody else.” Mildred smiled wistfully, her eyes looking past Dean’s for just a moment. “You want to know the secret to living a long and happy life?”

“Actually, yes, I do.”

“Follow your heart. You do that, all the rest just figures itself out.”

“That’s, uh—I mean, I don’t—”

“Oh, don’t try to hide it, now. Just follow your heart.”

Dean snorted. “That easy, huh?”

“It hasn’t led me wrong so far.”

She held Dean’s gaze until he turned away, back to the highway again. The hot wind wavered one of the flaps of his suit jacket back and forth.

“How do I—I mean, I don’t know how I know. What that is, I mean.”

“I think you do,” Mildred said.

Dean looked over his shoulder at the bank’s façade. He was definitely late for his appointment now.

“And as much as I’d love to stick around, I’ve got a rehearsal to get to.” Mildred beeped her car open. “I tell you, I don't know who the lucky lady is, but I am damn sure jealous.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the lucky one.” Dean opened Mildred’s door for her. “Um…thanks. For the talk.”

“Don’t mention it. Oh, here.” Mildred produced a sheet of paper from her purse, held it out to Dean through the window. “Play her some Patsy Cline. She’s got a song for everything.”

Mildred waved as she pulled out. Dean watched her until she reached the road, then looked down at the paper. At the top was a large black-and-white photograph of Mildred’s tribute band onstage and in costume; below was a printed setlist of about fifteen songs. Dean chuckled. One of the early tracks was called “I Can See an Angel.”

He folded up the sheet, slipped it into his suit pocket. Pushing off from his heels, he crossed the parking lot, retrieved a cart, and pointed himself towards the flower section as soon as he passed through the supermarket’s automatic doors. The rush of cool air felt like waking up after a long stretch of lassitude.

He didn’t look back at the bank once.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

When Dean got home, he texted Charlie even before he put away the groceries or stuck the roses in their vase. He had the meal planned out, but he wanted something more to get his message across. Something that Castiel wouldn’t be expecting.

_Hey._

_I need ideas for romance._

_What?_

_Romantic ideas._

_You know, like if you were trying to impress someone._

_Or apologize._

_Um._

_A nice dinner? By candlelight?_

_Think about who you’re talking to._

_I need things I wouldn’t think of on my own, Charlie._

_Okay, sheesh._

_Who’s all this for?_

_As if I don’t already know. 😉_

_Don’t be nosy._

_That’s not why I’m asking._

_It’s more romantic if you do something tailored to their interests._

_……_

_Let’s just try throwing spaghetti at the wall first._

_Great strategy._

_Well, you can’t go wrong with the classics. Like a long walk on the beach._

_I remember you used to have that on your dating profile._

_Too bad there aren’t any beaches in Winchester._

_You’re zero for two._

_No wonder you’re single._

_Look who’s talking._

_Unless…there’s something you want to tell me?_

Dean rolled his eyes. She was like a dog with a bone. He’d fill her in eventually, but he had to save his relationship before being able to actually tell her he was in one.

_Okay, what about…._

_Writing a poem?_

_What?_

_Get serious._

_Since when have you known me to write anything?_

_It doesn’t matter if the poem’s good or not._

_That’s not the point._

_I’ve heard people say that about cooking a meal for someone, too._

_And you know what?_

_They’re wrong._

_*Sigh* Fine._

_Flowers?_

_Already got some at the store._

_Oh really?_

_Yes really._

_I need more than flowers._

_Sounds like you seriously messed up._

_I guess._

_It’s complicated._

_Oh, I got one._

_Mixtape?_

_It would fit your whole retro fetish._

_I sort of already did that. But it was a Spotify playlist. For…reasons._

_“Retro fetish?”_

_Let’s just move on._

_Wait. I’ve got it._

_Stargazing!_

_It’s romantic and impossible to screw up._

_And the sky was blue all day today, so it should be clear tonight._

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t know the first thing about constellations, though he had to admit that gazing at the night sky while cozied up to another person sounded pretty romantic.

That was when he remembered Henry’s telescope in the attic. And above that, the belvedere.

_Charlie, you’re a genius._

_I am?_

_Yes._

_Stargazing. Cass will love it._

_Thanks._

_Ooh._

_Knew it was him 😊_

_Let me know how it goes!_

_I’ll think about it 😛_

Dean filled a vase and snipped off the bottoms of the rose stems before thrusting them into the water. He put away the groceries in the refrigerator and pantry, then carried the reusable bag filled with cat food to the mudroom.

“Spoiled kitty,” Dean said, once he’d dumped a can of salmon into Crowley’s bowl. “Hey, don’t forget to take a break to breathe.”

He petted Crowley a few times before meandering his way to the library. He’d noticed that the door was ajar when he passed through the living room, which meant that Castiel was in there.

“Hey,” Dean said, poking his head in.

Castiel glanced up, pulled off his headphones. He sat back from his laptop screen and rubbed his eyes.

“Hello, Dean.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your work. Just letting you know that dinner should be ready in an hour and a half.”

“Oh. Are you shooting a recipe? Do you need help?”

“No,” Dean said hastily. “Actually, I was going to ask you to stay out of that side of the house until then. I’m kind of…preparing a surprise.”

Castiel furrowed his brow. Dean couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s not a bad one, don’t worry.”

“My mind’s in overdrive now,” Castiel said. “Well, you’ve got quite a standard to meet.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you remember what I said the day we met? You’re the best surprise I’ve—”

“—Had in a long time, right.” Dean chuckled. “Same here, honestly.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Does that mean….”

“We’ll talk about it at dinner,” Dean replied. “Remember what I said.”

“Yes. I’ll stay away. I’m elbow-deep in the guts of my passage on NGO funding patterns, anyway. Won’t be leaving this chair until you drag me out of it.”

“Good.” Dean nodded. “See you soon.”

Castiel waved him off, and Dean closed the door behind him. He sorted through the preparations he had to make as he made his way to the front hall.

The telescope had to come first. It made sense to get that set up before washing his hands and beginning the cooking. Dean scaled the staircase two at a time.

The door to the attic had always stuck a little. Dean leaned into it gently to get it to yield, just as he’d done the last time he’d been up here, back in the months following John’s death. Dean had stored most of his father’s belongings in this room—clothes, old journals, antique guns—in a space out of sight from the doorway, next to the orderly vestiges of the Winchesters before him. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just donated most of it, as Sam had suggested.

The attic was somehow both warm from its position atop the house and cool due to being sealed off from the heat of the day. Unfortunately, the lack of any ventilation made it smell musty, and Dean slid up a couple windows on the front and back walls to get a cross-current through the room. He’d be bringing Castiel up here later, and the romantic flourish would fall flat if the first thing he noticed once they got to the third floor was the stale odor of ancient, forgotten things.

The telescope, of course, was where John and Dean had left it 17 years ago. John had had Dean hold up the lighter end when they brought it down from the belvedere, more because he was afraid of jostling its bulky frame against the sides of the narrow stairway than because it was too heavy for him to lift alone. In spite of his frequent complaints about the house’s clutter, John had always been studiously reverent when it came to his father’s possessions. Maybe Dean had absorbed that from him, like so many other things.

Dean threw open the narrow door to the belvedere, letting in the sun and wind. He clambered back down, wiped the dust from the telescope with the thin cloth that covered its top half, and lifted it with both hands. It wasn’t as heavy as he remembered. Then again, he wasn’t 13 anymore.

“Okay,” Dean said, once he’d gotten the telescope through the door and onto the belvedere’s cramped brick-and-cypress platform. He had to awkwardly negotiate around the wooden bench built into the octagonal railing, and there was only just enough room to stand the tripod up in the space that remained. “How do I….”

He peered through the finderscope. The moon, a ghostly wisp in the early-evening sky, winked back at him. Dean was so engrossed in what he could see that he didn’t take note of the voice hollering at him from below right away.

“Dean!” Kevin waved his arms.

“Hey!” Dean leaned over the belvedere’s railing. “All done?”

“Yeah! Everyone’s gone home for the day!” Kevin put his hands on his hips. “What’re you doing up there?”

Dean pointed. “I’ll meet you downstairs!”

He double-checked the telescope’s stability, then made his way back through the attic and down the stairs. Kevin handed him the truck’s keys once he got to the front hall.

“Thanks, Kevin.” Dean hung the keys on their hook. “I appreciate it.”

“No worries. It was either this or helping my mom snip the tops and tails from about ten pounds of string beans.”

“Ah,” Dean laughed. “Get you a drink?”

“Yeah, water’s good.” Kevin followed him into the kitchen. “How’d it go? I thought you’d be out longer.”

“Uh, yeah. Appointment went well. Hoping for the best.”

Dean filled Kevin’s glass, handed it to him. Kevin surveyed the kitchen as he drank.

“Roses?”

“Um. Well, I thought they’d brighten up the house a little.”

“Huh.” Kevin placed his glass in the sink. “I met Castiel earlier. He’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah.” Dean smiled at the roses. “Yeah, he is.”

“Seemed kind of distracted, though. To be fair, most PhD students come off that way.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Speaking of Cass, I better start cooking dinner for us soon.”

“Oh.” Kevin tried to hide his smirk by walking to the island and scrutinizing the roses. “Yeah, looks like you have something pretty special planned. Is that why you were up on the roof, too?”

“I was just enjoying the view.”

Kevin snorted. “Alright, Dean. I’ll get out of here. Um…” he paused in the hallway. “Good luck?”

Dean thanked him reluctantly, held the front door open for him. Once he was on his way, Dean shut the door, leaned against it, and sighed. He had less than an hour to get everything perfect.

He started with gathering and preparing the ingredients for vegan puttanesca. Since he was still wearing his suit, he was especially circumspect when working with the tomatoes—he was wearing an apron, but you could never be too careful. Once everything was laid out, Dean docked his phone in the tripod and took a deep breath. He’d been planning to get a dedicated camera to celebrate reaching 10,000 subscribers, but that was probably a ways off now with his new budget constraints.

“Hey guys.” Dean wiped his hands on his apron. “How’s the week treating you? It’s been kind of a weird one for me.” He laughed nervously. “That’s…probably an understatement. Anyway, you know what always makes a weird week better? A big bowl of pasta. Yeah, you all know by now that I love pasta. I’d probably have better abs if I didn’t, but we can’t all have the body of a Greek god like Cass, can we?”

Dean fidgeted the box of spaghetti in his hand, feeling a blush covering his cheeks. He momentarily considered starting over before deciding against it. He was already under enough of a time crunch.

“Um, this is probably my favorite pasta dish. It’s the one I make the most often. I used to make it even more when I lived by myself.” Dean paused. “What I mean is, I used to make it even more than I do now, since I’m trying so many new recipes these days. Uh, let’s just get started.”

Thankfully, the rest of the video went more smoothly than the introduction. While the sauce reduced and the spaghetti boiled, Dean explored the dining room cabinets for the candlesticks. He usually only put them out at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and Sam—for some unfathomable reason—always stored them away in a different place when they cleaned up each year.

After a few minutes’ search, Dean located the candles. He left the cabinet open while he returned to the kitchen and checked the pasta.

“Two minutes,” Dean murmured.

That was enough time to set the vase of flowers at the center of the dining table and scatter and light the candles around it. There was a good mix of them—tall beeswax ones, stout bayberry ones, tiny tea ones. With the sun slipping under the western ridge by now, they made up the balance of the light in the dining room. Dean stared at the dancing flames, shaking his head in disbelief.

“If you’d have told me two months ago….”

He interrupted himself, remembering the pasta.

“Perfect,” Dean said to the camera. “And now, we just mix everything together, get the pasta coated in that sauce and melted butter. See how nice and shiny it is? Sprinkle a few more basil leaves on the top. You know, why not?”

Dean stopped filming, checked his watch, untied his apron. He paused for a quick drink of cool water at the sink before walking to the record player in the living room. He sniffed his armpit while he rifled through the albums—he was sweaty, but thankfully didn’t smell. Really, he had no idea how he didn’t; he was as nervous as he’d ever been in his life.

“Here we go,” Dean muttered. He placed the Patsy Cline record on the turntable, found the ring corresponding to “I Can See an Angel,” and lowered the tonearm. Patsy’s rich contralto flooded the living room. Dean leaned one of his hands on the bureau for purchase. He was too nervous to look at the library door.

“Dean?”

Castiel was walking up to him, glancing at his watch. Dean offered him a shy smile.

“Hey, Cass.”

“Is it alright if I come out now? I think I’m a few minutes early.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, it’s alright. Everything’s ready. Um—” Dean reached for Castiel’s hand. “Come on.”

He led Castiel through the living room, down the hall, back to the dining room. He could feel the uncertainty in Castiel’s grip dissipate once the dining table came into view. He gasped.

“This is….” Castiel trailed off. “What’s this?”

Dean let go of Castiel’s hand so that he could pull his chair out for him. He breathed in, the smell of hot puttanesca and the faint scent of beeswax and roses filling his nose.

“This is me saying I’m sorry.”

“Dean, you don’t have to—”

“Please.” Dean motioned to the chair. “Sit. Let’s have dinner.”

Castiel smiled, letting out a long breath. Dean knew the feeling. He rubbed Dean’s upper arm as he sat down, and Dean pushed in his chair.

“Those flowers are for you.” Dean took his place across from him, poured the Pinot noir. “The song’s for you, too.”

Castiel grinned. “I figured. You still think I’m an angel, then?”

Dean finished pouring before he responded. He looked at one of the tall candles, blinking away the stinging in his eyes.

“Cass, about last night. I—” Dean turned to meet his gaze. “I should’ve stopped you. You were just trying to help and I lashed out at you. I let you go because—because it was easier than admitting I was wrong. That I’d overreacted.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, his voice shaky.

“No, I need to say this. I don’t know why I got so angry. I should’ve listened, let you explain.”

“I don’t blame you.” Castiel shook his head. “You deserved to get angry. I shouldn’t have lied. I should’ve asked about the money first.”

“You were doing it for me. No one’s ever—no one’s ever done anything like that for me. Maybe that was part of why I freaked out, I don’t know. But you need to know that I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t think you’re here because you feel like you have to save me.”

Castiel nodded. He dragged his index finger under one eye, then the other.

“And—and I forgive you for not telling me who you really were right away. Of course I forgive you. I don’t know what it’s like to have to hide your family from everyone you meet, but it can’t be easy. I see that now.”

“Oh, Dean.” Castiel reached across the table, finding a narrow path through the candles. He rested his hand over Dean’s. “I don’t deserve you.”

“ _You_ don’t deserve _me_?” Dean scoffed.

“Yes. You have no idea how amazing you are, darling. You’re everything I could ever want.”

Dean shrugged as he reached for the serving bowl. “No accounting for taste, I guess.”

Castiel sniffed and laughed. He watched Dean in the flickering candlelight for a few seconds before speaking again.

“I’m sorry too, Dean. For everything. For not being honest earlier on, for not asking you before I talked to my father. For not telling you it was Jack’s birthday I was going back to Maine for. I was scared, I guess, not knowing how you’d react to—to me having a son.”

“That one was a shock,” Dean admitted. “But you don’t have to apologize for not telling me about him sooner. It’s up to you to decide when you tell people you’re a father.”

“True. Thank you.” Castiel motioned to the roses, the candles, the silverware. “Dean, this—this is all amazing. And so romantic.”

Dean held out his wine. “Wait until you see what I have planned for us after dinner.”

“Um.” Castiel tilted his head as they clinked glasses. “How many guesses do I have? I doubt I’ll need three.”

“Not that.” Dean winked. “Well, not just that.”

They talked about their days while they ate, though most of the meal was taken up by stories from Castiel’s younger years that he was liberated now to share. The guardedness that Dean had sensed in Castiel from the very beginning was gone completely, and it was like the opening of a floodgate. He’d never seen Castiel talk with so much animation, not even when he was going on about left-wing causes. Dean felt immense pride at being the reason for that.

Dessert was homemade strawberry ice cream with the few fresh strawberries left from last week’s surplus cut on top. Castiel made noises that sounded downright filthy as he licked his spoon after each bite.

“Dean,” he said eventually. It was his first tentative word since they’d toasted at the start of the meal.

“Yeah?”

“How’d things go at the bank? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Oh.” Dean put down his empty bowl, wiped his mouth. “I, um, didn’t make it to my appointment.”

“Oh. Did something—”

“I just saw someone I knew on the way there. Got sidetracked while talking.”

“Ah.” Castiel ate his last bite of ice cream.

Dean cleared his throat. “I’ll just reschedule.”

Castiel looked down at the candles. He kneaded his hands together at the edge of the table.

“I’ll just say this, Dean. My offer stands. Nothing’s changed. If you want my help, nothing would make me happier than to give it.”

“Your offer?” Dean shook his head. “You mean your father’s.”

“No. The arrangement would be between him and me. Any loan—if you insist on doing it that way—would be from me to you.” Castiel sighed. “This will be so much easier after next September. I’ll finally have access to everything.”

Dean closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Castiel said. “I only wanted to make sure you know that I’m still an option. Whether you take that option or not won’t change how I feel about you one iota. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said tiredly. The last 36 hours were starting to catch up to him. “Okay. Hey, we better get to what I mentioned earlier before I nod off.”

“If you fall asleep during, I swear to take it personally.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Again, not that. Come on, we’re going upstairs.”

Dean blew out the candles, then took Castiel’s hand at the head of the table and led the way. When they got to the second floor, Castiel momentarily pulled in the wrong direction.

“Oh,” he said, once he was following again. “What’s up here? You didn't bother showing it to me when we did the house tour.”

“You’ll see. It’s mostly old crap that I keep around because it’s easier than hauling it all somewhere.” Dean turned on the attic light. “But…there’s something else.”

“Is this the part where you show me your pentagram and rack of torture instruments? I knew you were too good to be true.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean yanked him to the belvedere’s stairway. “Maybe you should be the stand-up comic and not your buddy.”

“Would probably pay more than a PhD in political science, honestly. Wait, is that—” Castiel dropped Dean’s hand at the top of the stairs, rubbed his fingers over the shaft of the telescope. “Oh my. This is—this is an exquisite instrument.”

Dean snorted. “I’m sure you’ve used that line a few times.”

“About telescopes, definitely. They used to be a big hobby of mine.”

“Really?” Dean lowered himself to the wooden bench and rested his head against the railing. The night breeze licked the sweat from his nape and tickled his hair.

“Yeah. You can see every star in the sky in rural Maine. More caribou than people.”

“In that case, I’ll let you take the lead here. I googled a few constellations earlier, but I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“Ah, don’t worry. I’m familiar with this type of telescope. The mount as well. And once—” Castiel scuffed along the brick, swiveling the telescope with him. “Once you know where certain landmarks are in the night sky, finding the other stuff is easy.”

Dean sighed in contentment. He rubbed his leg along the inside of Castiel’s a couple times.

“Sometimes I think there’s nothing you don’t know.”

“‘No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge,’” Castiel murmured. “‘The astronomer may speak to you of his understanding of space, but he cannot give you his understanding.’”

Dean laughed. “I think you’re proving my point more than anything.”

“I know nothing, Dean.” Castiel straightened up and looked back at him, his face just barely visible in the faint moonlight. “Except that I want to be near you always. Except that I….”

He looked down at the belvedere’s floor. Dean decided not to press him.

“Alright, Casanova.” Dean leaned forward. “What’d you find?”

“A lot, actually. You can see pretty much everything here, out in the middle of nowhere. Uh, no offense.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, actually.”

“Good. Um.” Castiel motioned to the telescope. “Do you want to see?”

Dean stretched. “Yeah, okay.”

“Actually, you look tired. Hang on, stay there; I’ll just try—” he dragged the tripod carefully to the edge of the bench. “There.” Castiel settled in Dean’s lap, squeezed his shoulder. “Now we can see everything without having to stand. It’s more relaxing that way.”

“Relaxing’s one word for it.” Dean stroked Castiel’s thigh. “If you feel something poking you, it’s the telescope I keep in my pocket.”

“Naturally.” Castiel swung the finderscope around again, searching the sky. “Okay, take a look. Not this lens, the other one.”

Dean peered into the eyepiece. He furrowed his brow.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“That’s Arcturus,” Castiel said. “The brightest star in the northern sky. Part of the constellation Boötes, the herdsman.”

“Boötes?” Dean tittered. “That’s a good name.”

Castiel sighed. “Anyway, he’s often paired with the constellation beside him, Canes Venatici, or the hunting dogs.” He fiddled with the telescope. “Here.”

Dean dipped his head to the eyepiece again. “Whoa.”

“You see the long, graceful arms? That’s the Whirlpool Galaxy.” Castiel took his turn to look. “It’s an important one in the history of astronomy, since it’s the first spiral galaxy we discovered.”

Dean curled his arm around Castiel’s waist, rubbed his side.

“If you tickle me,” Castiel warned. “I won’t be responsible for this contraption falling over.”

“I wasn’t going to do that.”

“Right. Sure.”

“You’re accusing an innocent man.” Dean slanted his head back into the moonlight and pouted. “I think I deserve a kiss for that.”

Castiel gave him a quick peck on the forehead. “That’s all you’re getting.”

“Jerk.” He nuzzled Castiel’s shoulder. “How’d you get into all this stargazing stuff, anyway?”

“Seven summers of astronomy sleepaway camp in Central Maine. My brothers called me a nerd for not going to the normal archery, boating, bear-wrestling camps they’d gone to.”

“Well, you kind of are a nerd.” Dean hugged his waist. “Good thing I’m into that.”

“Is that your telescope I’m feeling?”

“No.”

“Just checking.” Castiel moved the finderscope again. “Here’s something I know you’ll recognize. Tell me which constellation it’s a part of, and I’ll give you an actual kiss.”

Dean squinted into the eyepiece. “The Big Dipper?”

“Uh, actually—”

“No, the Little Dipper. That’s what I meant to say.”

Castiel snorted. “Not above cheating, I see. Well, the joke’s on you, because that’s still not the constellation. It’s just a part of it.”

“Wait, I know this.” Dean scratched his head. “The…Bear?”

“Which one?”

“Um.”

“Think about the part you just identified.”

“The Little Bear?”

Castiel leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Dean’s lips. His mouth tasted like strawberries, and Dean whined when he pulled away.

“A few factoids about Ursa Minor,” Castiel said, ignoring Dean’s protests. “It’s the site of a meteor shower every year around Christmas called the Ursids. Also, it’s the home of Polaris, the North Star.”

“Interesting,” Dean said blandly. “Can I have another kiss?”

“You know the rules of this game.” Castiel hunched down to peer into the finderscope, and Dean briefly considered tickling him in retaliation. “Here.”

“The Big Dipper,” Dean said, once he’d looked. “The Big Bear. Kiss time.”

“Well, it’s actually the Great Bear. But okay.” Castiel kissed him again, lingering a bit longer this time. “The Big Dipper is depicted on the flag of Alaska. One of the prettiest state flags, in my opinion.”

Dean shifted a little on the bench, jostling Castiel with him. The tripod wobbled.

“You okay?” Castiel teased.

“Just readjusting. You've kind of been threatening the Winchester family line for the last few minutes.”

“I could always stand up again.”

“Nope.” Dean nudged his shoulder. “Next constellation.”

“Ah,” Castiel said. “This one’s a special one. Take a look.”

Dean stared into the eyepiece. After a few seconds, he shrugged.

“What’s so special about it?”

“Yeah, visually it’s not that exciting, I agree.” Castiel took his turn to look. “But it’s special because it’s my zodiac sign. Virgo. Did you know it’s the largest constellation of the zodiac? And the second-largest constellation, period.”

Dean chuckled. “Size isn’t everything.”

“I agree. But it doesn’t hurt.” Castiel tilted his head. “Actually, I take that back.”

“Oh, you.” Dean looked at Virgo again. “Can we see Aquarius?”

“Uh, no, sorry. It’s passed out of the night sky by this time of year. But we can look for it once it comes back.”

“Hmm.” Dean pulled Castiel towards him. “Do I get a kiss for that one?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, putting up halfhearted resistance. “You didn’t identify it, but I also didn’t ask you to.”

Dean kissed the base of Castiel’s neck. “Whatever will we do?”

“We could always—ah!” Castiel winced away from Dean’s playful bite. “We could always keep going. Look for more, um, constellations.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean licked a strip under Castiel’s chin. “Which ones?”

“There’s…Leo.”

“Nah. Leos get enough attention.” Dean nibbled the side of Castiel’s neck again.

“Ah!” Castiel bucked his hips slightly. Dean’s suit trousers were becoming painfully tight.

“You got anything else, starboy? Because otherwise—” Dean raised his lips to Castiel’s ear. “Otherwise, I think we should move on to the next thing I had planned.”

“There’s—there’s Hydra,” Castiel breathed. “The Snake. It’s the largest constellation of all.”

“Intriguing.” Dean rose up suddenly, lifting Castiel to his feet alongside him. “But that’s not the large snake I feel like seeing right now.”

Castiel groaned. “You’re horrible.”

“I know.”

“And wonderful. And beautiful.” Castiel brought his arms around Dean’s shoulders. “You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be, is what I mean to say.”

“And you call me horrible.”

Castiel laughed. His kiss-stung lips shone in the moonlight.

“Come on, angel.” Dean shuffled them towards the stairway, catching Castiel’s laughter with his mouth as they went. “Time for you to take me to heaven.”

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Vegan Puttanesca

_This is kind of the Swiss Army knife of my cooking repertoire. Even when you don’t have the ingredients to make anything else, you can make this! It’s what’s known as a pantry pasta, which means that it comes together (almost) entirely with long-keeping ingredients that you’re bound to have somewhere in your kitchen. This also makes it fairly seasonless—it’s just as tasty and satisfying in the middle of winter as at the height of summer._

_Another reason I call this recipe my Swiss Army knife is because of its versatility. You can serve it to a crowd; you can cook it up as a nice meal for two with your partner; you can whip it together in minutes for a cozy dinner for one. The only drawback is that pasta isn’t exactly diet food, but…I agree with Julia Child when she said that “the only time to eat diet food is while you're waiting for the steak to cook.”_

Cook time: 40 minutes

Serves 4*

2 large yellow bell peppers, rinsed, stems snipped off**

1 28-ounce can peeled whole tomatoes

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

7 cloves garlic, smashed

1 ½ teaspoons dried chili flakes

1 ½ teaspoons dried oregano

¼ cup sun-dried tomatoes, sliced thinly

5 ounces salt-cured black olives or Kalamata olives, sliced in half

1 tablespoon capers

¼ cup loosely packed fresh basil (about 12 leaves), sliced thinly***

2 tablespoons vegan butter

1 pound spaghetti

Salt

The first step is roasting the yellow bell peppers. Take a look back at my recipe for Blue Potato and Green Chile Enchiladas for a refresher on how to do that; it’s the same for bell peppers as poblano peppers. You could alternatively just use an equivalent amount of jarred roasted yellow/red/orange bell peppers.

Once you have those prepared (remember, you have to roast them, peel the skins off, and pull out the seeds), slice them into thin strips and set aside. Then, strain the can of tomatoes through a colander, preserving the liquid in another bowl. Using a knife or a pair of kitchen scissors, cut open each tomato and mix gently to get most of the water out of the tomatoes and into the bowl below.

Heat the oil and garlic in a large saucepan on medium heat. Once the garlic is sizzling, add the tomatoes (save the tomato juice for later). Cook on medium heat for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally, until most of the water has evaporated and there’s some color/singeing on the tomatoes (a bit of black on the tomatoes is fine). The garlic should break into smaller pieces as it cooks.

While the tomatoes and garlic are cooking, boil a large pot of water and season with 2 tablespoons of salt.

Once your tomatoes are done, add the chili flakes, oregano, tomato juice, roasted peppers, sun-dried tomatoes, olives, and capers and stir gently. Add the spaghetti to the boiling water and cook until al dente. If the sauce starts to bubble vigorously, lower the heat to low. We want the sauce to thicken a little bit—some of this will be dependent on the tomatoes you use, since some types of canned tomatoes will have more water than others. You want a pretty thick sauce.

When the pasta is al dente, drain and toss with sauce, butter, and basil in the same pot or in a large serving bowl. Serve immediately.

*If you’re cooking for fewer people, I’d recommend still making the entire sauce and just cooking as much pasta as you need. The sauce keeps just fine and you can have the rest of it tomorrow.

**Other colors of sweet bell peppers are fine, but I think yellow looks the nicest in contrast with the red sauce.

**This is the only ingredient that has to be fresh. It’s an important one. I’d even suggest buying one of those little potted basil plants at the store and growing it in your window just for this recipe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patsy Cline was born in Winchester, Virginia on 8 September 1932. Her childhood home in downtown Winchester was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2005 and is now a museum.


	15. Coconut Chia Pudding with Blueberries, Roses, and Violets

“Are you okay?”

Castiel said it into the back of Dean’s neck. Dean glanced over his shoulder in the warm darkness, just for a moment.

“Yeah. Yeah, just thinking.”

Castiel’s body shifted behind his. Dean looked at the alarm clock on his nightstand. It read 2:23.

“What about?” Castiel said. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I won’t take it personally.”

Dean snorted. He rubbed his hands along Castiel’s.

“No, it’s—” Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m okay, definitely. More than okay. I guess I just thought….”

Castiel encouraged him with a kiss to his nape.

“Uh, I thought it’d feel like a big deal, I guess. Like my first time with a chick. Except, you know. Being on the other end.”

Castiel laughed, his chest rumbling against Dean’s back.

“Very eloquent.”

Dean jabbed Castiel with his elbow. “Shut up.”

“Sorry.” Castiel kissed his neck again. “So, it wasn’t a revelatory experience? No parting of the heavens, no choirs of angels singing? I’m almost offended.”

“No, it was awesome. You were awesome. It was…different, but not in a bad way.” Dean sighed. “I think I just psyched myself out about it, you know? I’m not sure whether I was more excited or scared. But it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it’d be.”

“Bad?”

“You know what I mean.” Dean tapped at Castiel’s wrist. “What was your first time like?”

Castiel chuckled. “It was with my college boyfriend. Sophomore year. Neither of us knew what the hell we were doing. Needless to say, there weren’t any angels singing then, either.”

“I never said there weren’t.” Dean wiggled back into Castiel. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

Castiel sighed and tightened his arms around Dean’s waist.

“Cass?”

“I’m just playing with you,” Castiel murmured. “I’m not offended. All that matters to me is that you’re happy.”

“I know. And I am.”

Dean turned back for a kiss that stretched on and on. He’d just started twisting his spine so he could face Castiel again when Castiel broke away.

“Huh?”

“I heard my phone.” Castiel reached to the nightstand. “Oh. It’s just Gabe sending me an anti-Trump meme.”

“At 2:30?”

“He knows I’m up. The two of us have always been night owls, like our dad. Jack’s that way, too, though maybe he’ll grow out of it. I think staying up as late as possible is an obligatory part of being a teenager.”

“What’s he like?” Dean said. “Jack, I mean.”

“He’s bright. Inquisitive. Kind and sensitive. Soft-spoken, not like his old man who never shuts up. Handsome. So talented. I’ve got all the drawings he’s ever made for me hanging in my office at home.”

“You sound like every parent,” Dean laughed. “It’s so weird that you’re a dad.”

“I know.” Castiel lined up behind Dean again. “Some days, I can’t even believe it myself.”

“Can I see him?”

“Yeah.” Castiel fidgeted with his phone before slinging the arm holding it over Dean’s body. “This is from the week before last. We went to a lobster restaurant in Rockland for his birthday. That’s why we’re wearing bibs.”

“Damn. He looks exactly like you. Except…blond.”

“That’s his mother’s genes winning out, I suppose.” Castiel brushed his thumb over the screen. “There’s one of the three of us.”

“That’s his mom?”

“Yeah, Kelly.”

Dean looked at their grinning faces, at the fiery sun over the harbor through the restaurant’s glass walls. Castiel and Kelly were each leaning in to press their cheeks to Jack’s as he raised his fork and knife sheepishly.

“Looks like the three of you get along,” Dean commented.

“We do, most of the time. We’ve had 16 years of practice.” Castiel dropped his phone for a moment and reached back to scratch his chin. “Kelly and I are friends. I think I can honestly say that. I don’t step on her toes with Jack, and she makes sure I’m a part of his life.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“No, I—I don’t know. You’re okay with that? Just seeing him once in a while? Birthdays, holidays, what, a few weeks in the summer?”

Castiel sighed. “I know I’m an absentee father, Dean. You don’t have to point it out.”

“I didn’t—” Dean looked over his shoulder. “I’m not judging. I’m asking.”

Castiel rolled onto his back, linked his hands behind his head, stared up at the ceiling. Dean flipped onto his other side to face him.

“I support him, Dean. Neither he nor Kelly have to work a day in their lives. She still does, of course. She’s more driven than me on my best day.”

“I know you support him, Cass. I wasn’t—I’m asking whether you miss him. Miss seeing him grow up. Being there for the little stuff.” Dean shook his head. “Tell me to shut up if you like. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’ve never been a dad.”

Castiel peered at him in the gloom. “Are you thinking about your own father?”

“Maybe,” Dean admitted. “I think he regretted not spending more time with me and Sam when we were growing up. He pretty much said that in the years before he died.”

“I miss Jack all the time,” Castiel said, after a brief silence. “Not every waking hour, but…in the quiet moments. When I get home from campus and order my dinner and eat alone. When I go grocery shopping on the weekends and see his favorite chips and candy bars in the checkout line.” Castiel laughed. “He’s always loved nougat.”

Dean lay his hand over Castiel’s heart. He stroked his thumb over his breastbone.

“Then….”

“Then, why am I here and not there?” Castiel replied.

“Yeah.”

“I’m here because of him, actually.” Castiel freed his right hand and brought it to Dean’s cheek. “He’s why I’m doing my PhD. Well, one of the reasons I’m doing it, at least. Certainly the biggest one.”

“Uh. I don’t get it.”

“I want him to be proud of me. His father should _be_ someone. Someone who’s done something with his life, not a hobo with a trust fund who’s floating through it like driftwood.” Castiel exhaled. “You wouldn’t understand, Dean. What it’s like to not have any direction in life. You’re the most diligent, responsible person I’ve ever met.”

Dean snorted. “Why does that sound like an insult?”

“It’s not. If anything, I wish I were more like you.” Castiel let his arm fall between them. “Can you pass me my phone? It’s behind you somewhere.”

Dean scrambled for Castiel’s phone. When he returned it to him, he cozied up to his shoulder and nudged his head.

“What?” Castiel said softly, nudging him back.

“You can show me more of him. If you want.”

“Sure.” Castiel’s thumb moved down his camera roll. “This is after one of his school band performances earlier this year. That’s his flute I’m holding. Right before we took this picture, one of his friends gave him that huge stuffed animal in his arms.”

“He’s already as tall as you,” Dean said.

“Yeah, he can blame his parents if he doesn’t get much taller. Kelly’s side is pretty short. And my father is tiny. How most of my brothers ended up being over six feet is a mystery to me.”

“On the bright side, you’re the perfect size for cuddling.”

“Maybe I _have_ found my true calling, then.” Castiel flicked through a few more photos, landing on a large group shot in front of a cavernous white stone fireplace. “This is from Christmas last year.”

Dean scrutinized the faces, noting the resemblance to Castiel of most of them. Castiel and Jack stood at the edge of the frame, leaning in with Santa hats drooping down along the sides of their heads. At the middle of the group stood a short, slight, bearded man wearing what could only be described as a smirk.

“That’s your family?”

“Yeah, my brothers and their wives and kids. And my dad in the center of everything, of course. The Sun we all revolve around.” He passed his phone to Dean. “We don’t all get together for Christmas very often. Like I said, it’s usually only once a year that we see each other. For my father’s birthday.”

“Didn’t you just see him? You said you’d moved from the hotel back home the other week. I’m still confused about that, by the way.”

“Oh.” Castiel sighed again. “No, I didn’t see him. When he’s in the middle of writing a new book, he doesn’t want to be interrupted for any reason. I stayed at Gabe’s house down the road; I have the keys to his place. Before that, I was at a hotel in Camden. So I could be closer for Jack’s birthday.”

“Did you—” Dean handed the phone back to him. “I mean, you seemed kind of upset about that. You said you’d tell me why when you got back.”

“You’re right, I did. I forgot about that.” Castiel chuckled as he began scrolling through his pictures again. “Sorry if I made you worry. It wasn’t a big deal. It was Jack that I wanted to tell you about in person, that’s all. He was mad at me about something for the first few days I was there, so we got into an argument on the way back from the restaurant. He said he didn’t want to see me for the rest of my visit. Then he changed his mind a couple days later. C’est la vie.”

“Huh.” Dean returned his head to Castiel’s shoulder. “What was he mad about?”

“I have no idea. Everything and nothing. He’s 16. He doesn’t need a reason.” Castiel brought up a video this time. “That’s him playing with his pet snake.”

“Pet snake?”

“Yeah. He can actually get it to do tricks. Like kiss him when he puckers up.”

“Kinky.”

Castiel elbowed him. “That’s my son you’re talking about.”

“Sorry,” Dean laughed. “No, it’s really good.”

“What is?”

“That the two of you have a relationship. That you and his mom are on good terms. That you and him made up. All of it.”

“Well, I’m the only father he’s got. And he’s my son. Even if everything else in the world falls away, we still have each other.”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugged. “Yeah, sometimes I wish my dad had realized that more. Or earlier, maybe.”

Castiel pressed his phone black and placed it on the nightstand.

“I wish he had too, Dean. You deserved…you deserved that, at least.”

They lay next to each other in the darkness, silent for a while. Dean could tell that Castiel wanted to say more, that he was holding back out of respect for the promise he’d made the last time they’d talked about John.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Dean murmured. “About my dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. About whether I sold myself short. Whether I ever wanted to do anything else with my life.”

Castiel patted Dean’s arm. “Tell me.”

“I—” Dean fluttered his lips. “It’s kind of silly. I always wanted to cook for people. Have my own restaurant, maybe a little lodge in the country. Somewhere people could meet, relax, have a good time. I imagined having lots of people around me, morning till late at night, friends and strangers. I don’t know, maybe it’s because it was only the three of us when I was growing up. Me, Sam, and Dad, moving from place to place. Or, once we got here, working on the farm all the time.”

“Did you get lonely?”

“Yeah. I mean, sometimes.”

Castiel kissed his cheek. Dean trembled at his touch, and Castiel lingered there, seeming to sense it. Dean had never felt safer, and more vulnerable, in his entire life.

“That’s not silly at all. I think it sounds like a beautiful dream, Dean.”

“I—I don’t think I ever got to be a normal kid,” Dean said, the words spilling out now before he could think better of them. “I had to take care of my Dad when he got drunk, I had to take care of Sammy when Dad disappeared for days on end. I even had to take care of him when he was around most of the time. I never—”

Dean choked on the lump in his throat. Castiel returned to soothing his arm.

“It’s okay,” Castiel whispered. “I know.”

“I tried. I tried filling the void with women, you know? I started early. And it wasn’t like I was pretending to be into them or anything; it wasn’t like that. It felt good. But it was what I was supposed to be doing, too. And it was like—like my dad respected me more when I had a chick with me. Like he saw _me_ more instead of just….”

“Seeing you as his blunt instrument?”

“More like his sharp instrument.” Dean wiped the corners of his eyes and laughed. “You’d be surprised by how pointy a shovel is, city boy.”

Castiel shared in his laugh. He seemed uncharacteristically patient, his hand calm and steady on Dean’s arm. He waited until Dean had been quiet for a long time before speaking.

“So,” Castiel said. “This restaurant-cum-lodge of yours.”

“Yeah?”

“It sounds lovely. Where would it be? Winchester? Somewhere else?”

“I’m not sure.” Dean scratched his head. “I never got too far with the idea.”

“Hmm. And what about the farm? Could you do both?”

“I don’t know. When I had these dreams, my dad was still alive. The farm wasn’t my responsibility yet.” Dean cleared his throat. “I thought he’d be around a lot longer.”

Castiel nodded against Dean’s arm, pulled at his shoulder. Dean eased down into his embrace, laying his cheek on Castiel’s chest.

“Dean.” Castiel kissed the crown of his head. “Don’t talk about your dreams in the past tense. Okay?”

“Okay, I guess. Since you asked nicely.”

He nuzzled into Castiel’s collarbone, breathing in the scent of lavender. Dean could tell that Castiel was mulling over something more than what he’d already said, but he was too tired to draw it out of him.

“I have a couple hours until I have to go to work,” Dean mumbled.

“Mhm.” Castiel’s hand traveled down Dean’s back, his grip firmer than before.

“I actually meant I should get some shut-eye.” He rubbed up against Castiel’s side. “You don’t want me operating farm machinery while I’m sleep deprived, do you?”

“I suppose not.” Castiel kissed him again. “Goodnight, then. And sweet dreams.”

“I don’t really dream.”

“Of course you do,” Castiel said patly. “Everyone does. You just have to want to remember them. Try to hold onto them in the morning, before they slip away.”

Dean relaxed into Castiel’s arms. He was already drifting off, already more asleep than awake, so he wasn’t sure if his skeptical acquiescence left his mouth or if he just thought it. It was just as well. Castiel made him want to believe again in impossible things like dreams.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Dean spent all day Thursday with the blueberries, leaving Kevin to deliver the strawberry harvest to the warehouse and manage the workers. Typically, he'd have waited another week or two before starting up blueberry picking, but with most of the strawberry crop gone he was having trouble keeping everyone he’d hired busy.

More acres of the farm were covered with blueberries than any other crop. Though strawberries were Winchester and Sons’ most profitable product, blueberries were in some ways the true workhorse of the operation—low maintenance, high yield, decent sale price. To his relief, Dean didn’t find any traces of disease on them after a full day of inspections. When afternoon gave way to early evening, he filled a Tupperware with blueberries and walked up the hill, waving to the workers who were making their own ways back to the housing units.

“Look what I brought you,” Dean said, once he was home. He placed the container on Castiel’s desk.

Castiel looked up from his laptop. “Oh. Sorry, Dean. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Dean leaned across the desk and puckered up. Castiel rose from his chair to meet his lips.

“Working hard?” Dean said, craning his neck to see Castiel’s screen.

“Ugh. I’ve been doing organizing stuff in the group chat and posting on social media since lunch.” Castiel rubbed his temples. “I think I’m getting a headache. Are those blueberries?”

“Yup. First of the year.”

“How exciting.” Castiel resumed typing. “Can I put some in my granola tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I only need a few for my next recipe.” Dean picked up the blueberries and walked to the library door. “I’ll get started on dinner. Any requests?”

“Anything, Dean. I’ll eat anything you make. Oh, before I forget: I’ll take care of dinner tomorrow. You deserve a break after the week you’ve had.”

“You’ll—” Dean made a face. “You’ll take care of dinner?”

Castiel waved dismissively. “I won’t be cooking, obviously. I’ll order something for us. Or we could go out, if you’d prefer.”

“No, delivery sounds good. You had me worried there for a second.”

“One of these days, I’ll have to surprise you. You’ll come home from work and I’ll have dinner on the table.” Castiel winked. “It can’t be too hard. You say it yourself on your blog. Cooking should be accessible to everyone. That’s the whole point of recipes.”

“Yikes. Well, as long as you don’t burn the house down.”

“You’re only making me want to prove you wrong.” Castiel flexed his shoulders, returned his gaze to his laptop. “I’ll try to finish everything up by the time dinner’s ready. Then I’m yours for the rest of the night.”

After showering and looking through the kitchen for what he had on hand, Dean decided to make them breakfast for dinner—primarily because eggs were piling up again in the refrigerator door. An hour’s work yielded a tower of fluffy blueberry pancakes; two cheese, mushroom, and spinach omelettes; a dish of vegetarian bacon; and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice. He heard the sound of the library door just as he was turning off the stove.

“Oh, wow.” Castiel peeked over Dean’s shoulder. “This smells incredible.”

“Perfect timing.” Dean retrieved the warm pancakes from the oven. “Grab the juice, will you?”

Once the table was set, Dean took a picture for Instagram. Even when he wasn’t posting a recipe, he still liked to share his meals. It was how he’d started up, back in the months after Lisa moved out, when the dating apps weren’t piquing his interest any longer and he was casting about for any form of human contact he could find.

“Feels like the beginning,” Dean said. He sat down and forked a stack of pancakes onto Castiel’s plate, then his own.

“‘The beginning?’”

“Before I even started the cooking blog. When I just posted pictures of my food on Instagram.”

Castiel smiled fondly. “I remember your first post, you know. Winchester—"

“—Strawberry Pie,” Dean finished. “Damn, that pie was good. Guess I won’t be able to make it this year.”

Castiel offered him a look of commiseration. They started on their food, Dean pointing out that the bacon was vegetarian and revealing in great detail how much of a personal sacrifice that was for him. For Castiel’s sake, he pretended to enjoy it more than he did.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Castiel poured more blueberry syrup over his pancakes. “I looked up the process for listing a property on the National Register. Remember how we talked about it?”

“Uh, yeah.” Dean chewed the last bite of his omelette. “What’d you find?”

“Well, there’s a form to fill out. The northern Virginia regional office can help with that. Then it goes to them, and once they give their stamp of approval, it heads to the state board in Richmond. After that, it’s on to the National Park Service in DC.” Castiel sipped his orange juice. “You’ll breeze through. I mean, the historic value of this place is self-evident.”

“Huh. Looks like you got it all figured out.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Castiel tilted his head. “What’s the matter? Are you mad that I researched it without asking you?”

“No. I mean, not really.”

“Then what?”

Dean sighed. “It’s just—what we talked about last night. I hope you didn’t take it too seriously. About me wanting to ditch the farm, open a restaurant and lodge.”

“Of course I took it seriously. It’s your dream.” Castiel searched Dean’s eyes. “Ah, I see. Dean, there wasn’t an ulterior motive to what I did. I’m not trying to get you to turn this place over to the National Park Service or something. That’s not what happens. The owner retains all his rights to the property.”

Dean shrugged. He blew out the two candles between them.

“Are you still worried about—”

“Of course I’m still worried,” Dean said. “But I just have to meet with my bank and see what I can do.”

“Right.” Castiel stood up with his plate stiffly. “Okay. Well, rest assured. All I did was some research online. It’s up to you whether you do anything with it.”

Dean watched Castiel cross over into the kitchen and load his plate in the dishwasher. He threw his head back, closing his eyes to the glare of the dining room chandelier, and rubbed his forehead.

“Cass?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Thanks.” Dean opened his eyes again, threw him a weak smile. “I’m just tired and stressed and—you were trying to do something nice. I’m being stupid.”

“It’s fine.” Castiel put his hands on his hips and grinned. “How about you let me choose what we watch tonight, and we’ll call it even?”

“Sounds fair. As long as you help me clean the kitchen.”

“What? No way. I’ll take care of it.” Castiel strode to Dean’s chair and heaved him up. “Go on, relax on the couch. I’ll be right there.”

“Hmm.” Dean rubbed his hands together as he flopped onto the sofa. “I bet I have enough time for an episode of Scooby.”

Castiel kissed his cheek and returned to the hall. For the next 20 minutes, the distant sounds of tinkling dishes and water spraying against the kitchen sink intermingled with the cartoon sound effects and voiced lines that Dean had long since memorized. When Castiel joined him, stealing away the remote with his pruny fingers, Dean lay down across the couch with his head in Castiel’s lap. He even managed to stay awake for most of an episode of _Our Planet_.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Sam texted Dean the following day while he was doing his first review of the raspberries of the season. Though his brother’s interruptions typically irked him, today he found himself welcoming a bit of a break from his tasks. The lack of sleep over the last couple nights was beginning to catch up with him.

_Waiting for my flight and eating a burrito._

_I usually don’t go for Chipotle, but it’s the only halfway decent option in this part of the terminal._

_Eating Chipotle right before spending six hours on a plane sounds risky._

_I don’t get queasy on planes like you do._

_Planes don’t make me queasy._

_I just like driving, alright?_

_Uh-huh._

_Anyway_

_You got some time?_

_I need to tell you something._

_And ask you something._

_Yeah, flight hasn’t started boarding yet._

_What is it?_

_It’s the farm._

_There’s a problem with the strawberries, and I’m gonna have to find a loan._

_What??_

_How much?_

_Around 3 million._

_Crap, that’s way more than I have in my savings._

_I’m not asking you for money. That’s not why I’m telling you._

_😒 Right, I forgot. I’m not allowed to help ever._

_Okay, look._

_It’s, uh. It’s Cass._

_He’s offering to float me what I need._

_I’m sort of thinking about it. I don’t know. Am I crazy?_

_Why’re you asking me? I’ve never had a sugar daddy._

_It’s a loan, jackass. I’m paying it back._

Sam didn’t reply for a several minutes. Dean paced around his truck, sweating under the fierce sun.

_You choke on your burrito or something?_

_Look, Dean. Being brutally honest here, it seems like a lot of stress to put on a relationship that just started._

_Money changes things._

_Yeah, I know._

_I guess it comes down to whether you trust him as much as he trusts you._

_He wants to just give me the money, no strings attached._

_So I don’t think he’ll try to hold the loan over me._

_I’m the one forcing him to make it a loan in the first place._

_Huh._

_I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know what the right thing to do is._

_You have to go with your gut. You know him way better than I do._

_And there’s definitely something special between you guys._

_Anyway, they just called my group, so I have to go._

_You sure you don’t need me there?_

_No, enjoy your vacation._

_Not like you can do anything here. Like you said, I have to go with my instincts._

_Yeah._

_Whether you take him up on it or not, we’ll find a way to keep the farm going._

_Don’t worry about that part._

_Thanks, Sammy._

_Text me when you land._

_Will do_ _😊_

Dean returned to the strawberries in the remaining hours of his workday, making sure that the healthy plants were remaining so and that the harvest had been culled enough that moving most of the workers to blueberries wouldn’t leave anything to wither on the vine. There wouldn’t be any picking tomorrow, since he, Kevin, and Charlie would all be at the farmer’s market. At least they’d have a couple dozen cartons of fresh strawberries to sell.

He was still thinking over his conversation with Sam when he packed up the truck for the day. Going with his gut meant letting Castiel help him, but even with as much faith as he had in his instincts, he still couldn’t banish his doubts. It wasn’t just about risks to the farm if things went sour with Castiel; if anything, Dean feared whatever negative effects the loan could have on their relationship more. He didn’t want to go back to the way things had been before Castiel. Nurturing what they had, he’d decided, was his North Star.

From as far off as the back gate, he could see Castiel standing in the yard, surrounded by swaying sheets on the clothesline. Dean parked the truck in front of the garage and walked across the grass, trailing his fingers through the herb garden as he approached Castiel from behind. Once he was a few feet away, Dean saw that he was wearing earbuds. He grinned and crept up to him.

“‘All I wanted was a white knight,’” Castiel hummed. “‘With a good heart’—hey!”

He whipped around, stumbling into one of the billowing sheets. Dean doubled over with laughter as he held the stolen earbud away from Castiel’s frantic hands.

“Careful, angel. You’re about to bring down my entire clothesline.”

Castiel tossed the sheet away from his face and glared. “You scared the crap out of me. Give that back.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Why don’t you try and take it?”

“Don’t tempt me. I learned from my brothers that a clothespin in the right place can be very painful.”

Dean chuckled and stuck the earbud into his ear.

“‘This Kiss,’ huh? You into grocery store music?”

“It’s a really good love song, actually.” Castiel lunged forward, only for Dean to deftly sidestep. “I _was_ thinking of you, but now I think that association was misguided.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean brought his arm to Castiel’s waist and pulled him close. “So, you don’t want me to do this, then.”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” Castiel said indignantly. “Except steal from me and mess up the laundry I just finished hanging.”

Dean stuck out his tongue, earning another glower from Castiel. Then, he leaned in, head askew, and met his lips. One of his hands interlaced with Castiel’s fingers and the other pressed into the small of his back, and Dean could taste the recent afternoon coffee in his mouth. Faith Hill serenaded them with something ridiculous about kissing with the windows open to the pouring rain.

“Better?” Dean said. He drew in a long breath. Surrounded as they were by damp bedsheets hanging from the parallel lines, the air around them smelled of warm grass and the bright scent of liquid detergent.

“Hmm,” Castiel muttered. “Well, I suppose I could consider forgiving you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Castiel squeezed Dean’s butt before turning to reach for more clothespins. “I mean, I just washed the bedsheets from your old room. I’m mainly hoping that I don’t have to do it again soon.”

“How romantic.” Dean followed him down the line of clothes, nipping at his neck. “When’s dinner getting here?”

“Aren’t you demanding.”

“No, I mean—I want to know if I have enough time to shoot a recipe beforehand. It’s a dessert. Should only take like fifteen minutes to set everything up and film, but I have to take a shower too.”

“I’ll just call in the order when you get out of the shower, then.” Castiel reached up to clip a pair of Dean’s boxers to the line. “Do you still want Thai food?”

Dean nodded his assent into Castiel’s shoulder. “Yeah, that sounds awesome. Hey, come with me. I want to show you something.”

“Now? I’m trying to finish this. You could help me instead of distracting me.”

Dean bent down to the laundry basket; there was only underwear and socks left. They filled out the rest of the clotheslines while Castiel told Dean about his day’s research and a disconnection-plagued Skype call with his supervisor, who was hunkered down for the summer somewhere in rural Brittany. When they were done, Dean returned the earbud he’d taken and led Castiel across the backyard to the vegetable patch.

“What’s this surprise you have in store?” Castiel said.

“‘Surprise’ might be a strong word.” Dean latched the gate behind them. “I just thought you might appreciate this. It’s the flowers. They’ve really taken off since the rain stopped.”

“Oh, I think I see them.” Castiel craned his neck as they walked past the young stalks of corn, the bean and tomato trellises. “Are those all—”

“Roses, yeah. Virginia roses, to be precise.”

“Naturally.”

“It’s a wild rose. And a native species, obviously. Henry wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Castiel crouched down to the row, where the first tiny, pale-pink blooms were unfurling above the thorns. He bent in to sniff.

“You said these are edible? People put these in food?”

“Yeah, the flowers are edible. I think most people end up just eating the hips, though, later in the year.” Dean squatted down beside him and started plucking off a few of the roses. “You can make jam from them. Tea, too. I just need a few of these for the recipe.”

“A dessert with rose petals.” Castiel scrambled up and followed Dean back to the edge of the garden. “Doesn’t get more food porny than that.”

“It does, though.” Dean gestured to the next row, which was bursting with minuscule flowers in dusky purple. “We’re using those, too.”

“I think I smell them already. They’re violets, right?”

“Got it in one.” Dean nudged him forward. “Can you pick a few of those for me? I kind of have my hands full.”

Castiel bent down among the violets, causing two orange-spotted butterflies to flutter off on the breeze. For a while, Dean watched his careful movements in silence, listening to the faint singing of the crickets, breathing in the delicate scent of the flowers all around them.

“I, uh—I wanted to tell you, Cass. I talked to Sam about it, and I’m thinking about taking you up on the loan.”

“Oh.” Castiel’s hand paused; he peered up at him. “I didn’t expect that. I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“Not saying I will. I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“Of course.” He turned back to the violets, pinching another free and holding it up to his nose. “Well, take as long as you need. Is this enough?”

Upon Dean’s nod, Castiel rose to his feet, cradling the flowers in his palm while turning his eyes to the pink and purple sky. It was senseless, Dean thought: how nonchalant Castiel was about it all; how freely he was willing to give without expecting anything in return. Dean’s gut may have been saying one thing, but everything he’d learned in his life warned him against trust, told him there wasn’t a chance in hell that all this was real.

“I just—Cass, I just don’t get it.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Don’t get what?”

“What you see in me. Why you’re willing to take such a stupid risk. I mean, I’m just a berry farmer who’s made more poor choices in his life than good ones. We’ve known each other for less than two months. Why would you dive in to rescue me?”

Castiel took a step towards him, his gaze as blue and encompassing as the horizon just before dawn. He scattered the violets into Dean’s waiting hand and cupped his cheek.

“I told you. I care about you. There really isn’t a deeper explanation than that. You know, there’s a quote from _The Prophet_ —”

Dean snorted. “Of course there is.”

“‘Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; for love is sufficient unto love.’ I really believe that. And I think the world would be a better place if more people did.”

Dean closed his eyes and leaned into Castiel’s grasp. The sweet scent of violets there was overwhelming. Castiel brought his other hand to Dean’s shoulder, holding him gently.

“Good things do happen, Dean.”

Dean shook his head. “Not in my experience. Mom, Dad—”

“I know.” Castiel moved his thumb along Dean’s cheekbone. “I know. But…maybe it’s time for you to have a little faith again. It’s like this garden. You went through that storm, experienced terrible loss. But the flowers around us, they’re still here. And they’re beautiful.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Finally, Dean exhaled into Castiel’s hand.

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right, Cass.”

“Of course I am. It’s like I told you a while back. After a hurricane comes a rainbow.”

“Ugh.” Dean drew back, giving Castiel a look of abject disgust. “You had to go and ruin our moment with your tween girl taste in music.”

“It’s fine.” Castiel winked. “You can admit you like Katy Perry too. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Let’s go in before these flowers wilt,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “Or before you get more supermarket tunes stuck in my head.”

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Half an hour later, Dean was stirring the coconut chia pudding he’d prepared that morning, making sure that the consistency was right. Castiel was pacing in the hallway as he called in their delivery order. They still had a video to shoot, but Dean always felt more self-assured when Castiel was taking part. The first few times they’d filmed together, Dean had thought that he was adopting a false persona for the camera—flirty, playful, eager to please. Now it seemed more likely that Castiel was bringing out another side of him that he’d kept shut away for far too long.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Castiel paused in the kitchen doorway. “30 to 40 minutes? Perfect.”

Dean gestured to the tripod once Castiel hung up. “I checked it before I set up the ingredients, but you might want to make sure I did it right.”

“Let’s see.” Castiel leaned down to the camera with his hands on his hips. “Hey, handsome. Looking nice and clean after your shower.”

“Come on,” Dean said gruffly. “I don’t want the food to get here while we’re in the middle of filming.”

“I thought you said it’d only take fifteen minutes.”

“It should. Who knows how long it’ll take with you trying to get me to mess up the entire time, though.”

“Sounds like a challenge to me.” Castiel counted down his raised fingers above the camera, pointing across the island when he reached zero.

“Hey everybody.” Dean waved to the camera. “Guess what? I’m about to make some of you very happy.”

“Hang on.” Castiel joined Dean’s side and looked him up and down. “You’re not about to go all naked chef here, are you?”

“Not what I meant. Thankfully, our viewers don’t have their minds in the gutter quite as much as you, Cass.”

“Someone hasn’t looked at his comments recently. Or ever.”

“Anyway,” Dean said abruptly. “A lot of you ask me for more recipes using berries. We’re right at the start of blueberry season here on the farm, so I figured I’d feature a recipe with them to celebrate.”

“I like blueberries.” Castiel reached across Dean to pilfer a few of them from their ramekin. “What’s on the menu, then?”

Dean threw his hands into the air and beamed. “Pudding!”

“You seem very excited about this,” Castiel observed.

“Who wouldn’t be excited for pudding? Especially when said pudding is a nutritional powerhouse?”

“Are you sneaking vitamins into my dessert?” Castiel shrugged to the camera. “He’s always trying to get me to eat better.”

“It still tastes good, don’t worry.” Dean raised the shallow bowl of chia seeds to the camera. “We’re making chia pudding with coconut milk and topping it with berries and edible flowers. It only takes a few minutes to throw together. So, let’s get started. We need half a cup of chia seeds, a can of coconut milk, two tablespoons of honey—you can use maple syrup if you prefer.”

“For all you vegans watching,” Castiel said. “And Canadians. Fair amount of overlap there, in my experience.”

“Uh, sure. Then we have our spices. One and a half teaspoons vanilla extract, one teaspoon ground cardamom, a half teaspoon of ground ginger. Last but not least—” Dean lifted the blueberry ramekin with one hand, the cream-white platter of roses and violets with the other. “Our berries and edible flowers. This is a small, sweet heirloom blueberry that my family’s been planting for the last eighty years. And here, we’ve got some pink Virginia roses and some Appalachian violets.”

“Blue, pink, and purple.” Castiel grinned. “Hey, it’s like the bisexual flag.”

“Oh.” Dean put down the dishes and scratched his cheek. “There’s a flag for that? Learn something new every day.”

“You’ve been learning a lot of new things lately, it’s true.”

Dean shot him a look; he could already feel himself blushing. Castiel smiled innocently.

“Uh,” Dean said, after a few seconds. “Let’s just get started. First, add the chia seeds to a medium mixing bowl….”

Once he finished demonstrating the preparation, Dean switched out the bowl in his hand for the one holding the pudding he’d made that morning.

“This is a batch I prepared earlier. See how it gets thick and creamy after a few hours in the fridge? That’s what we want.”

“I do like my pudding thick and creamy.” Castiel picked up the blueberries. “Do we get to decorate now?”

“Yes, Cass. We get to decorate now.” Dean placed two wide crystal glasses on the birchwood and filled each one halfway with pudding. “In terms of presentation, you can create layers of pudding and berries if you like. Or, you can put everything on top. I go with layers, myself.”

“You’re a layered guy.” Castiel sprinkled a few blueberries into the glasses, after which Dean filled them to the top. “More?”

“More on top, yeah. And the last step—” Dean raised the platter of flowers. “Guess I’ll do the honors?”

“By all means.” Castiel stepped away from the counter. “I’m sure you’re a much better flower artist than I.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean snorted. He pressed a sunburst pattern of roses and violets into each glass. “I can feel the judgment wafting off you.”

“It’s true. I judge people who are too perfect. They’re annoying.”

There was a single rose left once Dean had covered both servings. He held it out to Castiel.

“For you.”

“Aw. Thank you.” Castiel slanted his head forward. “Here, put it behind my ear.”

Dean obliged him, smoothing back Castiel’s hair before he fitted the rose into the space between his temple and earlobe. He had to lean in to do so, and he found his hand unconsciously drifting down along the side of Castiel’s neck; found himself, a moment later, unconsciously seeking Castiel’s lips with his own. They were millimeters from kissing when Castiel stepped away, his eyes wide.

“Dean?”

“Uh.” Dean shuffled back and dropped the plate. It hit the island with a clatter. “Sorry.”

Castiel glanced at the camera, then the pudding cups.

“These are great,” he said hastily. “You did a great job. Should we taste them?”

“Oh. Yeah, I hope you like it.”

“I’ll just get a closeup before digging in.” Castiel walked to the tripod with his pudding, changing something with the angle of the phone before returning.

Dean handed him a dessert spoon once he got back. “What do you think?”

Castiel nodded approvingly. “It’s really nice. Sweet, but not too sweet. Rich but not heavy. And the scent of the flowers, the presentation—it all goes together well.” He laughed and wiped his mouth. “I feel like I’m a judge on one of those cooking shows.”

“What’s your favorite one?”

“The original Japanese Iron Chef, of course. I was jealous of the host’s outfits.”

“Oh my god. Cass, I used to watch that all the time growing up. Once Sam went to sleep and I had the TV in our motel room to myself? Yeah, that was Iron Chef time.”

Castiel glanced to the other side of the island and chuckled. “Dean.”

“Oh, right.” Dean waved to the camera. “Well, that’s coconut chia pudding with blueberries, roses, and violets. Tell me—”

“Bisexual Coconut Chia Pudding,” Castiel interrupted. “Can we call it that on the blog?”

“No. I’m pretty sure pudding doesn’t have a sexuality.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Anyway, guys, tell me what you think of this one in the comments! I love hearing from you.”

Castiel rounded the island and tapped Dean’s phone. He offered him a hesitant smile.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean exhaled. “Damn, Cass. I used to get nervous when I did these—I mean, I still do. But now I’m having the opposite problem. When I’m talking to you, I get so comfortable, I forget we’re on camera.”

Castiel shrugged. “We can always edit things out.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in censorship,” Dean teased.

“You don’t mind, then? That you almost—”

“That I almost laid one on you? Nah. People are already speculating about us. And it’s not like we actually did anything.”

“I’ll leave it in when I edit, then. Something tells me this video will be a popular one.”

The doorbell rang as soon as Castiel finished sending the video to himself, and he went to answer it while Dean cleaned up the island. They took their curry and noodles and spring rolls to the living room. Last night, during one of the conversations they’d had while watching nature documentaries, Castiel had admitted to never having seen _Tombstone_. Dean had wasted no time in declaring that they’d found their Friday night movie.

For a while, Castiel feigned interest. Somewhere in the second hour, though, he retrieved his laptop to begin editing the pudding recipe, muttering something about the plot making his head hurt. While the video processed, he bemoaned “violent white male-centered guns and tuberculosis narratives” and pointed out the “overt homoerotic subtext” between Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday. Dean said they could play out some of that cowboy subtext later in the night if he just sat and watched the rest of the movie without complaining, after which he was on his best behavior.

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The weather was perfect at the farmer’s market the next day, warm enough for shorts—if Dean actually wore those—but with enough of a breeze to make sitting under a stall tent for eight hours mostly bearable. The promenade was filled with people, and Dean saw a fair number of new faces in the crowd. They sold out of strawberry cartons by noon, even with the premium price hike he’d had to slap on them after the mold. Dean wondered whether most of the other berry operations in the region had had major strawberry losses too.

In spite of the good weather and better sales, Dean was preoccupied. He was driving back to the house at lunchtime to pick up Castiel, and they’d decided the night before to tell the truth if Charlie or Kevin asked them any questions. It amazed him how being with Castiel made him sometimes feel like he was half his age, wanting to show off his latest girlfriend in the school hallways or at the teenage haunts around town. The newness of it, the danger-laced thrill of not following a road he’d been down countless times before, was exhilarating.

“Alright,” Dean said. He engaged the delivery truck’s parking brake and turned to the passenger seat. “You ready for this?”

Castiel tilted his head. “We’re just going to an outdoor market. You make it sound like we’re charging into enemy fire.”

“You’ve never seen Charlie unleashed. Not to mention her and Kevin together.”

“Hey.” Castiel squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine. They’re your friends. You sure you want me to come with you? I could just walk around town and find a café if you’re not ready.”

“No, you’re right. Come on.”

They crossed the street, walking over the promenade’s crimson carpet of eastern redbud blossoms until they reached the Winchester and Sons stall. Charlie and Kevin stared up in rapt interest.

“Uh, I guess both of you’ve already met Cass.”

“Hello,” Castiel said. “Nice to see both of you again.”

“Hey,” Kevin said. “How was dinner the other night? Did you like the telescope Dean set up?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Alright, don’t bombard the guy with questions right off the bat.”

“Here, take my chair.” Charlie sprang up. “I spend too much of my day sitting, anyway.”

Though Castiel tried to protest, Charlie practically pushed him into the seat before moving to help a customer who’d appeared while they were talking. Castiel confirmed to Kevin that he had, indeed, liked the telescope.

“I hope you guys don’t mind if I try to get some work done.” Castiel opened his laptop. “I’ve fallen behind this week.”

“My fault,” Dean said cheerily. “I’ve been distracting him.”

Kevin made a face. “Um.”

“Like getting him to do your cooking videos with you?” Charlie said, returning from the front of the stall. “That one you posted last night was…interesting.”

Castiel looked up from his laptop. “Hey, back me up on this. Didn’t that pudding look like the bisexual flag?”

“Oh, totally. And violets are pretty damn sapphic.”

“You’re reading too much into it,” Dean grunted. “Sometimes pudding is just pudding.”

“I’m with Dean on this,” Kevin said. “He’s not the kind of guy who’s going to put hidden meaning into everything.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“Although—” Kevin ran his hand through his hair, looking suddenly flustered. “You know you guys almost kissed on camera, right? I mean, you uploaded the video, so I’m sure you know. But.”

Castiel glanced up at Dean. Dean shrugged.

“We play it up a little,” Castiel said. “That’s pretty common on social media, though. Kind of a sign of how much things have changed since I was a teenager. It’s probably baiting in most cases, but—”

“Well, not in ours.” Dean turned from Kevin to Charlie, then back. “Me and Cass—it’s what it looks like.”

“Finally!” Charlie nearly shouted. The woman in the hand-painted jewelry stall next to theirs turned to frown. “Oops.”

“So, you guys are—” Kevin stroked his chin. “That’s awesome. I knew Dean seemed different lately.”

“Different?” Castiel said.

“Yeah. Calmer, mostly. Oh, hi ma’am. What can I get for you?” Kevin pushed out of his chair, and Charlie took his place.

“Two things,” Charlie said. “One, I’m really happy for you guys. And I’m unbelievably proud of you, Dean. I mean, I always am. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

“But the other thing. Have you taken a look at your YouTube today? Or your Instagram?”

“No,” Dean said. “I usually wait until I have a couple hours in the evening to respond to stuff. Why?”

“You’re kind of blowing up. I mean, in the hour from when you left to pick up Cass to when the two of you got back, your subscriber count went up by at least a thousand. The number ticked over when I refreshed to check new comments.”

“In an hour?” Castiel opened the browser on his laptop. “Oh, wow. Yeah, even my post on Instagram about it has a couple hundred comments.”

“The power of boys kissing,” Charlie mused. “Well, almost kissing.”

Dean couldn’t resist watching the mayhem unfold on social media for the rest of the afternoon, religiously refreshing his YouTube and Instagram between customers. By the time he and Castiel got home in the evening and he’d made them a pitcher of ranch water, his channel had reached 19,000 subscribers. The number of comments across all his platforms was simply unmanageable.

“You’ll have to hire a dedicated social media person at this rate,” Castiel said. They toasted on the deck, the sunset resplendent above the rims of their highball glasses.

“Charlie handles the farm’s website. Maybe I could get her to work a few more hours a week.” Dean chewed his lip. “She doesn’t know much about cooking, though.”

“Well, you can still take care of those questions. But just having another pair of eyeballs on your social media presence would be a good idea, I think.”

Dean leaned in to kiss Castiel’s cheek. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d be eating dinner for one tonight, I guess. So would I. What’re we having, anyway?”

“Black bean, sweet potato, and avocado tacos. And I made a radish salsa this morning to go with them.”

Castiel groaned with unrestrained delight, and Dean responded with a comment that made his face glow scarlet in the setting sun. They drank their cocktails for a few minutes, falling into a peaceful quiet among the chirping of the crickets and the rustling of the breeze up from the hollow. For the first time in a while, Dean felt like he was able to just be still, like he could finally stop and take in the world around him without having to dwell on any specific, immediate problem in his life. To just _be_ , absent of any expectations—he thought that that was possibly the greatest gift Castiel had given him so far.

Then, right on cue, his phone vibrated against his thigh.

“It’s Sam,” Dean said.

“Tell him I said hi.” Castiel pushed away from the railing. “I’m going for a refill, you want one?”

Dean handed him his glass, then turned his attention to his phone.

_God, things are so weird with Jess._

_I mean, they always are for a day or two after we meet up._

_I was gonna say, that’s what you say every time._

_Yeah. We’ll always be in each other’s lives, I know that much._

_Still figuring out the details._

_Nothing wrong with that._

_What about you and Cass?_

_Do you know what you’re gonna do about the loan?_

Dean sighed. He gazed at the gate in the distance, at the neat line of the berry access road along the top of the valley, murky now in the long shadows. He thought about Castiel telling him that his dreams belonged in the present tense. He rolled over in his head Mildred’s advice to follow his heart.

“Here,” Castiel was saying.

Dean accepted the glass, returning his phone to his pocket. He held the glass between his hands but didn’t drink.

“How’s Sam doing?”

“Good, yeah. He, um—” Dean glanced along the railing. “He wants to know if I’ll let you help.”

Castiel nodded. “And will you?”

“Look, Cass.” Dean swallowed. “If we do this, we’re going to do it right. I want a payment schedule, interest, forms to sign, all of it. I’m not going to freeload.”

Castiel grinned. “Whatever you want, Dean. I’m at your disposal.”

“Maybe we can even make you like…an investor or something in the farm. Not sure how that works.”

“So, this means…yes?”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, Cass. This means yes.”

Castiel fell forward and threw his arms around Dean, hugging him tight. Dean strained to get the arm holding his glass free.

“Ah,” Dean said, once he was finally able to return the hug. “Okay. You’re acting like it’s me doing you the favor.”

“More than you know.” Castiel shook his head against Dean’s neck. “It means so much to me that you’re letting me help. That you trust me with your family’s farm.”

“Of course I trust you.” Dean rubbed up and down Castiel’s back. “And not just with that.”

Castiel pushed away and immediately fished his phone out of his jeans.

“I have to get in touch with Bartholomew right away. He’ll get the process started.”

“Alright.” Dean sipped his cocktail. “Let me know if you need any information from me.”

“Oh, wait.” Castiel frowned. “A text from my dad.”

He set his glass down on the deck, paced a few steps.

“‘I watched the video of you and Dean you linked on your Instagram,’” Castiel read out. “‘Perhaps I misjudged the situation. It’s clear that you feel some affection for him beyond infatuation.’”

Dean snorted. “That just fills me with warm fuzzies.”

“‘If it’s amenable to you, I’d like to meet him. Please invite him to Providence in August if you wish. I’ll pay for any travel and business expenses incurred, of course. Love, Father.’”

Castiel blinked at his phone for what felt like minutes. Finally, he looked up at Dean.

“That’s good, right?” Dean said. “That he wants to meet me?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said pensively. “I guess so. He’s never really had good things to say about my boyfriends before. Not saying I’ve had the best taste in men—well, until you, obviously. But….”

“What?”

“This feels—I feel like I’ve been waiting for this for 33 years. It’s hard to describe.” Castiel breathed out, long and slow. “Do you think…do you want to come with me? In August?”

Castiel was peering into his eyes, gauging his reaction. Dean did his best to hold his gaze. Leaving the farm in August was pretty close to impossible, given the volume of berries that would have to be harvested, processed, stored, and sold.

Then again, he was believing in a lot of impossible things lately.

“How about—” Dean picked up Castiel’s glass and motioned to the French doors. “How about we have dinner first. Then we can talk all about it.”

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Coconut Chia Pudding with Blueberries, Roses, and Violets

_When it’s summertime here on the farm and the fields are bursting, I’m always having to find new ways to use what we grow. Personally, I could eat a berry pie every day and not get tired of them, but one of the great things about coming up with recipes is branching out and trying new things. This vegan pudding is sweet enough to have for dessert, but you won’t feel guilty about eating it for breakfast, either._

_Cass is looking over my shoulder right now, telling me to name this recipe “Bisexual Coconut Chia Pudding.” Well, I won’t be putting this pudding in a box. I’m giving it as much time to discover itself as it needs._

Cook time: 10 minutes + overnight

Serves 3

½ cup chia seeds

1 can unsweetened coconut milk*

2 tablespoons maple syrup or honey

1 ½ teaspoons vanilla extract

1 teaspoon ground cardamom

½ teaspoon ground ginger

½ cup blueberries

¼ cup edible flowers**

Whisk together all the ingredients except for the berries and flowers in a medium mixing bowl. Let stand for five minutes, then mix again to make sure everything is fully combined and that you don’t have any dry clumps. Cover and let set in the refrigerator for at least two hours, but preferably for at least six hours/overnight.

Remove the pudding from the refrigerator and check the consistency. It should be thick and creamy. If it’s too thin, you can add an additional teaspoon or two of chia seeds and return it to the fridge for a half-hour or so.

Once you have your pudding, fill each serving dish halfway, then cover with a layer of blueberries. Pour the rest of the pudding on top and decorate with more berries and edible flowers. If your flowers are on the larger side, you can pull them apart and dress the pudding servings with petals instead.

*You can use coconut milk from a carton instead—1 can is equal to about 1 ¾ cups.

**We used Virginia roses and Appalachian violets, but most types of roses and true violets (e.g. not African violets) should give you a similar result. If you’re gathering from the wild, make sure that you can identify the species as an edible one.


	16. Grilled Succotash

Dean wiped his hands on his napkin. He’d just polished off his third taco, washed it down with the rest of his glass of ranch water. Castiel was still on his first.

“You’re making me feel like a pig,” Dean said.

“Oh.” Castiel pushed the last bite of his taco into his mouth and chewed. “Sorry.”

Dean stifled a burp. “What’s on your mind? Talk to me.”

“Just thinking about my father. About August. You said we’d talk about it at dinner.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed. “You’re right, I did. When’s his birthday?”

“August thirteenth. We usually get together for a few days before and after. You and I don’t have to stay an entire week, though. I remember you saying it was hard for you to leave the farm.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

“Our cross-country winter road trip. The one we talked about my first night here.”

“Oh, right.”

They traded a tentative laugh back and forth across the table. Castiel glanced at Dean, then back down at his plate.

“Look, Cass. August—that’s a tough month for me. I mean, things are pretty nonstop around here from now all the way through to the beginning of September. I can’t even take a day off, much less go on vacation halfway across the country.”

“Could you hire someone? To supervise everything while you’re away?”

“No. It’s not as simple as that. I’m the only one who knows how everything’s supposed to work around here. Where everything is; where everything goes. Plus, after what happened with the strawberries, I don’t want to take a risk with the harvest later in the year by leaving it up to some hired hand.”

Castiel frowned. “How hard can it be? Don’t people just have to pick them and store them?”

“Just trust me. A lot can go wrong on a farm this size. Until you’ve actually owned one, you don’t know how complicated it can get.”

Castiel exhaled and pushed his plate away. Dean edged it back towards him.

“Come on, you’ve barely touched your dinner.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, his voice strained. “Do you actually want to come with me? If you don’t, you can just say so.”

“I—” Dean hesitated. “I’m not sure. I mean, I only found out about it an hour ago.”

Castiel nodded slowly.

“And…honestly, your dad sounds a little intimidating. Your whole family does.”

“Is that the real reason you’re reluctant? Because you’re afraid of meeting him? Or…or because you think it’s too soon?”

“No, Cass. I told you the real reason. I can’t just up and leave the farm right in the middle of summer. It’s got nothing to do with me being afraid of your family, or moving too fast, or whatever.” Dean pinched his forehead. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Castiel was silent for a few seconds. When Dean raised his eyes to him again, he shrugged.

“Then I guess that’s that.”

“Cass, come on.”

“I understand, Dean. I do.” He offered him a tight-lipped smile as he poked at his second taco. “Besides, now that I’m an informal investor in Winchester and Sons, I should want it to do well.”

“Good point.” Dean’s jaw went slack. “Wait, that’s it, Cass!”

Castiel paused mid-bite. “Huh?”

“Winchester and _Sons_. I’m not the only person who knows how to run this place. Sam was part of it for nine years before he went to college, and then he lived with Lisa and me the summer before last.” Dean licked his lips. “I can get Sam to take care of the farm. He’ll be fine for a week.”

“Can he get the time off?”

“He better.” Dean crossed his arms. “He’s always complaining that he doesn’t get to help out around here. Well, now he can.”

“Oh. Then that means….”

Dean broke into a massive grin. “Means I can go with you. As long as Sam comes through. I’ll ask him when he gets back from California. I don’t want to bother him with work stuff while he’s on vacation.”

“Dean.” Castiel was talking through a mouth full of food and didn’t seem to notice in the least. “This makes me…very happy.”

“Me too, Cass. Me too.”

“There’s so much I want to show you. The island—well, it’s not that interesting, but we can spend an afternoon driving around it. Portland’s only an hour and a half away, and we can stop in Brunswick on the drive down. Just a quick walk around Bowdoin so you can see where I went to college.” Castiel hesitated. “And…you can meet Jack. If you want. You don’t have to.”

“No, I—” Dean paused. “Cass, it’d be awesome to meet him. But let’s wait until we get the go-ahead from Sam before you start planning every waking minute we have there.”

“Okay.” Castiel winked. “But not a second longer.”

Dean stood up with his empty plate. He couldn’t stop smiling.

“I’m going to make myself another taco. You want one too?”

“I’m still working on what I have. Guess I should be eating more and talking less.”

Dean nodded and started walking to the kitchen.

“Don’t take too long,” Castiel said. “I miss you already.”

He kissed the air, and Dean grabbed for it as he passed through the doorway.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

With the question of the farm’s finances all but resolved, Dean slept better that night than he had in days. Of course, it also helped that, while they were brushing their teeth at 11:30, Castiel had an epiphany about some chapter of his dissertation and rushed down to the library to work on it. He had a way of keeping Dean up past his normal bedtime when they went to bed together.

“I’ll try to get up a little earlier,” Castiel said, once Dean was home from the farm the following afternoon. It was Sunday, and Dean’s shortened workday meant that the stars had finally aligned for them to do yoga together.

“You will?”

“I’m never going to wake up at the same time as you, but it’d be nice to end our days at the same time. I hate having to do writing after you’ve come home. I already don’t see you enough already.”

“Well, up to you.” Dean leaned down into the stretch and grimaced. “You’ve got your shit to take care of, so do I. We’ll make it work.”

“Don’t strain yourself.” Castiel looked up from between his shins. “If you can’t hold a toe-touch right away, it’s fine. It’ll get easier over time. Flexibility is all about practice.”

Dean grunted stubbornly.

“Be kind to your body, Dean. You already put it through a lot.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean released the stretch and straightened up. “I’ve got to say, Cass, you look pretty good bent in half like that.”

Castiel snorted. “You’re a true poet. Other side.”

“Oh, right.”

Dean spent the hours after dinner in his office, responding to comments—first the ones on his recipe page, then to cooking questions under the YouTube video, then to a few of the top-voted comments on his Instagram. Castiel sat on the beanbag, clacking away at his keyboard in fits and starts.

“How many now?” Castiel said, out of the blue.

“Uh, 24k on the YouTube channel. 27k on Instagram. Want me to check yours?”

Castiel hummed something noncommittal.

“29.5k. I guess you’ll just always be above me. Not that I mind.”

“Good to know.” Castiel looked up from his laptop. “Dean, I need to go back to DC this coming weekend. Just for a day.”

“Oh.”

“I haven’t shown up to any of the protests in weeks. There’s another immigration one on Saturday, and I really should be there.”

“Alright. Since it’s Saturday, I’ll drive you.”

“Uh—are you sure? I can just hire a car.”

“Yeah, Charlie and Kevin can handle the stall. And if we drive back Saturday night, I can still be up bright and early for work on Sunday.”

“Well, that’s settled, then.” Castiel shunted his laptop onto the beanbag, walked to Dean’s desk, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders from behind. “Thank you, darling.”

Dean stroked along Castiel’s forearm. “You sound so old-fashioned when you say that.”

“Sorry. I suppose I had an old-fashioned upbringing.”

“No, I like it.” He kissed Castiel’s wrist. “I’ve been told I have a retro fetish.”

“Maybe you’ll get along with my dad, then.”

“Maybe,” Dean said skeptically. “Bedtime?”

Dean started the blueberry harvest the next morning, moving most of the workers down the valley from the picked-over strawberries. With all the housing units now occupied, the farm’s operations were firing at full capacity. He even stopped thinking about the loss of the strawberries for most of the day, only remembering that he had to write out a late summer razing and replanting plan when he drove past them on the journey home.

When Dean finished washing up in the mudroom, he walked to the library like usual. Today, though, Castiel wasn’t there.

“Cass?” Dean called to the living room.

“Kitchen,” Castiel answered.

Dean crossed the hallway, beaming when he saw Castiel sitting at the island. He had a large box in front of him and a mug of coffee in his hands.

“Hey, angel.” Dean met his lips. “Sorry if I’m sweaty. Hot day.”

“Make sure you drink enough water.” Castiel nudged the box towards him. “Look what came for you.”

“Me?” Dean squinted at the box. “I didn’t order anything.”

He raised his eyes to Castiel, who only shrugged enigmatically. Dean walked to the utility drawer for a pair of scissors.

“No idea what this could be,” Dean muttered. He pulled at the flaps, revealing a sleek black rectangle swaddled in air cushions.

“Careful when you take it out.”

“So, you do know what this is.” Dean freed the inner box and laid it on the birchwood. “But you’re not going to tell me?”

Castiel shrugged again, clearly struggling to contain his smile this time.

“Alright, let’s see what you’re getting me into here.”

Dean flipped up the top pane of the rectangle. Nestled within the soft foam were a camera, a selection of lenses, and a manual in English and Japanese.

“Uh.” Dean gaped at Castiel. “What?”

“You mentioned a while back that you were thinking of getting a camera to film your recipes. And then, after the strawberries, you weren’t sure whether you could afford it anymore.” Castiel rolled his mug between his hands. “Well, here it is. Call it a…going into business together gift.”

Dean took a deep breath. “Cass, how much did this cost?”

“Around $3,000.”

“Cass!”

“Dean, think about who has to film and edit all your videos. If anything, I have more say in whether you need a new camera or not.”

Dean scowled. “That’s not how I see it.”

“Fine, we’ll say it’s mine, then.” Castiel flicked the box closed. “And since it’s mine, I choose to use it whenever I film your recipes. Unless you intend to fire me.”

“Okay,” Dean sighed. “You win, Cass.”

“And you can use it too, if you like.” Castiel slipped from his stool, kissing Dean’s neck as he walked around him to the sink. “You don’t even have to ask first.”

“Thanks.” Dean said it with a tinge of sarcasm, but reconsidered a second later. He followed Castiel to the sink and massaged his back. “I mean it.”

“Well, so do I. It’s really my camera. Maybe I’ll even give it a name.”

“Uh-huh. Hey, how about you get that thing set up while I’m in the shower, and we can use it to shoot the follow-up to our pudding video?”

“I could do that. It can’t be that hard to figure out.” Castiel drained the rest of his coffee. “I wonder how we’ll top it. Even I’m a little nervous now.”

“It’s not like I planned what happened last time. Honestly—”

Dean let out a peal of laughter that reverberated against the kitchen’s old brick walls. He brought the crook of one of his arms around Castiel’s neck, pulled him in, and planted a wet smooch on his cheek.

“Honestly,” Dean resumed, as Castiel blinked at him in surprise. “When you came along, you sort of threw every plan I had out the window. And I’m okay with that.”

“Aw.”

“I must have heat stroke,” Dean said, once Castiel kissed his cheek in return. “I’m getting mushy.”

Castiel pushed him up the stairs, saying a refreshing shower would cool him down. When Dean returned twenty minutes later, Castiel had the camera set up at the corner of the island. He read through the manual while Dean gathered and prepared the ingredients for tofu yakisoba: onions, garlic, carrots, and cabbage, all thinly sliced; the ingredients for the sauce in little dishes; and then the breaded tofu.

The filming was smooth overall. The sole blip, which they only noticed when Castiel was editing the video hours later, was Dean’s lingering hand on the small of Castiel’s back as the latter took a turn at stirring the wok. They decided to leave it in.

Within 24 hours, the channel had gained another 5,000 subscribers.

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Over the next couple days, Castiel helped Dean with filling out the preliminary information form for listing in the Virginia and national historical registers. At first, the going was slow, but Dean remembered something from years back that might speed up the process.

“I think—” Dean straightened up, glanced through the office doorway at the stairs to the attic. “I remember my dad saying something about Henry keeping journals. He said he wrote in them every night after dinner. Things that happened on the farm, expenses, that sort of stuff. Maybe there’s something about the history of the house in them.”

Castiel looked up from the form. “Are those still around?”

“Yeah, my dad kept all of his things. I’m sure there’s a box filled with his journals up in the attic somewhere.”

After an hour’s search, Dean found a promising volume stuffed full with maps and sketches of the property. On one of the early pages, written in Henry’s spidery cursive, was an account of the house’s initial construction.

“Huh,” Dean said. “‘The cornerstone of Bunker Hill was laid on the fourteenth of April, 1815. Built for the Baltimore merchant Adam Winchester as a country retreat.’”

“Looks like you’re really Marylanders.” Castiel leaned in to see the page. “‘Bunker Hill?’”

“Yeah, I remember Dad saying that a couple times. People used to name their houses back then. I wonder if Dad dropped the custom or Henry did. Or someone before them.” Dean started pacing along the attic’s narrow strip of walkable space. “Maybe it got confusing since Bunker Hill’s the name of a town right over the border, too. Great hot dogs there.”

“Hmm.” Castiel patted his midsection. “My stomach just growled.”

“Yeah, I lost track of time.” Dean snapped Henry’s journal shut. “Let’s go make dinner.”

They left the photographs for the next day. Dean came back for lunch and looked over the shots Castiel had taken of the house’s façade earlier in the morning, and they spent the next half hour taking pictures of the greenhouse before heating up the leftover roasted vegetable quiche from the night before.

“We can do the rooms tonight,” Castiel said. “The form says to include pictures of all the ‘outbuildings or secondary resources’ as well.”

“Alright. That’s just the horse barn, I think. We can do that tomorrow.”

“There aren’t other buildings? I thought you showed me a few when you took me on that tour.”

Dean shook his head as he finished chewing a bite of quiche. “Henry built the garage in 1981, and the worker housing’s even more recent than that. The old maps of the property show a few buildings that aren’t there anymore, but….” Dean shrugged. “One of the Winchesters before my time must’ve demolished them.”

“Okay then. Tomorrow.”

“I’ll try to finish up a little earlier than usual. That way, we’ll have enough light to get pictures of the barn. It’s pretty dark inside.”

True to his word, Dean clocked off work two hours early the next day. With the interior and exterior of the house and greenhouse photographed and the written portion of the form completed, the horse barn on the property’s southern field was all that was left before their final submission. From the look on Castiel’s face when Dean pushed into the library, though, he’d forgotten all about it.

“The pictures,” Dean reminded him.

“Oh!” Castiel sat back and rubbed his eyes. “No, I remember you saying you’d get home early. I’ve just been so absorbed in these translations that I lost track of time.”

Dean circled the desk and peered over his shoulder. An array of documents shared Castiel’s laptop screen; far more were scattered before him on the mahogany in paper form.

“Is translating stuff really that interesting?”

“It’s more like…it’s easy to immerse yourself in it,” Castiel replied. He neatened the sheets into a single sheaf and closed his laptop. “There’s a switch I flip in my brain to go into translator mode for the afternoon, and then—”

“You get into the zone?”

“Something like that.” Castiel stood up and pressed his lips to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “If I’m being completely honest, though, translation’s mostly nice because it’s a break from writing. Staring at that blank section header—it’s the worst.”

“Huh.” Dean stroked Castiel’s back. “I figured I’d jump in the shower before we get started.”

“Alright.”

“I won’t take too long.”

Dean leaned in for a longer kiss, but Castiel broke away after only a couple seconds.

“Huh?”

“Your face is really hot.” Castiel frowned. “And the edges of your ears are red. Did you forget to wear sunscreen today?”

“Oh.” Dean hung his head sheepishly. “Yeah, the bottle in my truck ran out. I only took my hat off for a little while to cool down.”

“You need to be careful. I have some sunscreen in my suitcase. I’ll stick it in your truck while you’re in the shower.” Castiel thrust out his hand. “Give me your keys.”

Dean snorted as he produced his keyring from his pocket. “Yes, sir.”

Half an hour later, Dean was pulling open the front doors of the barn while Castiel snapped pictures of the eaves and siding. He was so engrossed in the task that he tripped over the exposed roots of one of the black cherry trees along the horse fence, nearly falling into the dirt.

Dean chuckled. “You okay over there?”

“Nice to know me almost fracturing my tailbone is so funny to you,” Castiel grumbled.

“You’ve got to look on the bright side, Cass. If you _had_ eaten it, you’d need someone to rub some pain cream on your butt.”

“Sure. In some cheesy porno, maybe.”

Dean hooked the second door to the exterior wall and turned to Castiel again. “How many photos do we need to take out here, anyway?”

“Enough so they have a full and complete picture of the structure. Its architectural features, its condition, all of that.” Castiel made his way towards him, inspecting the camera’s screen as he walked. “I’m taking more than we probably need, just so we don’t miss something and have to do all this again.”

“I’m glad I have you to help with this.” Dean curled an arm around Castiel’s waist. “I think I would’ve taken one look at that form and given up.”

“Ah. Well, after you’ve gone through the ethics approval process for social science research on human subjects, most other paperwork just doesn’t seem as bad anymore.”

Dean pursed his lips. “That’s a strong contender for the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said.”

“That’s a compliment, right?”

“Yeah.” Dean guided Castiel into the interior of the barn with him. “It’s a compliment.”

They were only a few steps in when Castiel stopped moving and sniffed the air.

“This place is a mess.” He waved the dust eddies away from his face. “And it smells.”

“It’s an old horse barn, Cass. It’s not some designer apartment in DC.”

“Well, I can certainly see that. And not much else, considering how poorly lit it is in here.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Stop complaining. You’re such a city boy.”

“Fine.” Castiel raised the camera to his face. “Once there’s enough light to take them, I’m ready to get the pictures done. Then we can wrap this up and get smoothies in town.”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing after?”

“Maybe we could even pick up something at Garth’s bakery,” Castiel mused. “I wonder what he’s done with your berries.”

“I better get the rear doors open before you schedule us for the rest of the week.” Dean started down the drive bay, Castiel following close behind.

“I do like an open rear door.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“How can you even see in here?” Castiel said, once they reached the other end of the barn. “I almost tripped over something back there.”

“Probably just a clump of straw.” Dean grunted as he pushed the doors open. “There, it’s finally light inside. Happy?”

Castiel turned back to survey the interior, letting the camera hang from its strap while he pressed his hands to his hips. Dean returned to the drive bay and pushed the cultivator back to its place at the side of the barn. Honestly, Castiel was right about it being a mess in here. Dean left machinery and tools out sometimes for easier access throughout the season, but that system of organization didn’t exactly yield the nicest photographs.

“Dean?” Castiel said.

“Yeah?”

Dean walked back to the clicking of the camera, jogging to get out of a shot that Castiel pointed straight down the middle of the building. He gazed at the dilapidated fence that edged the gravel road to the hollow while he waited for Castiel to finish.

“Do you come in here a lot?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. Once a month, maybe. I only store a few things here. Fill a barn too much and you’ve got a fire hazard.”

“I don’t like this part of the farm,” Castiel said evenly. “It doesn’t seem very safe.”

Dean couldn’t see his expression behind the camera, but he could tell from his voice that he was serious. He almost sounded worried.

“Come on, it’s not that bad. You’re just not used to being in old country buildings like this.”

“Dean.” Castiel lowered the camera and gestured above their heads. “There’s a bowed beam right in the middle of the ceiling. Next to the skylight.”

“Roof lantern,” Dean corrected.

“Okay, roof lantern. Either way, it looks like it’s about to fall down at any moment.”

“Looks alright to me,” Dean said stubbornly.

“There’s water damage all along the far wall,” Castiel continued. “Those black stains? I wouldn’t be surprised if that entire corner caved in on you one day.”

“That’s always been there. Why would I be standing in the corner, anyway?”

“Not to mention there’s some sort of…nail sticking out of that column.” Castiel motioned to the side of the drive bay. “I think we nearly walked into it when we stumbled through the dark to get here.”

“No, I walked us right down the middle.” Dean crossed his arms. “And that’s a rebar, not a nail.”

“Dean.”

“I’ve been meaning to fix it, alright? All of it. But I don’t exactly have tons of extra time.”

“I’m not blaming you.” Castiel reached for his hand, and Dean took it grudgingly.

“Sure sounds like you are.”

“I’m not.” Castiel caressed his thumb over the back of Dean’s hand. “Henry’s diary says that this building was erected in 1858. The state it’s in couldn’t be your fault when you’ve only been the owner for two years.”

Dean looked back at the sagging joist undergirding the center of the roof, the warped rebar that beckoned like a gnarled, outstretched hand. He sighed.

“Cass, this whole damn process is just making me realize how much work I need to do around here.”

“Yeah.” Castiel tilted his head at the ceiling. “But I don’t think you should handle this on your own. You’re not an architect or a restoration expert. You wouldn’t want to damage the structure or hurt yourself while doing the repairs. I mean, look how high up that beam is. Maybe the person who does the house—”

“Frank.”

“Frank. Maybe he could take a look. Or maybe he knows someone.”

“Great.” Dean fluttered his lips. “How much is that going to cost?”

Castiel tsked. “Who cares.”

“Cass, no.”

“Dean. I’m the one who pushed you to do this. It’s only fair I help.” He shuffled forward and wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Dammit, Cass.”

“I know.” Castiel leaned in to kiss Dean’s nose. “I’m just having my way with you.”

“You got that right,” Dean said sullenly.

“You could always tell me to knock it off.” Castiel graced his lips down Dean’s cheek, then neck, settling finally on the sill of his collarbone. “Anytime you want.”

Dean blinked at the swaybacked horse fence, breathed in the balmy aroma of Kentucky bluegrass around their feet. The leaves of the black cherry trees whispered in the breeze. When Castiel nipped at the base of his neck, Dean giggled and jerked away.

“Never heard you make that noise before,” Castiel said. He drifted his hand past the small of Dean’s back, teasing under his belt. “Now I kind of want to see if I can make you do it again.”

“What, right now?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “I thought we were going into town for smoothies.”

“Hmm.” Castiel slapped Dean’s rear. “Let’s close up this dusty old barn first. Then we can figure out what comes next.”

Each of them took hold of one of the doors, and Dean bolted them shut once they were firmly in their grooves. The barn was plunged into near-darkness again, and Dean instinctively reached for Castiel’s hand. He wasn’t sure whether he did it for Castiel’s benefit or his own.

“I think—” Castiel squeezed his hand. “Smoothies. Definitely smoothies.”

“I’ll try not to take it personally.”

“Well, we still have the entire afternoon after that. We have all the time in the world.”

Dean grinned. There was just enough light at the dark end of the barn for him to see the blue in Castiel’s eyes dance with those words.

“Sounds good to me,” Dean said.

They walked, Castiel leading the way this time, out into the bright afternoon.

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“We could go to a gay bar.”

Dean glanced at the Impala’s passenger seat, greeting Castiel’s suggestion with a single arched eyebrow. Following a brief detour to Le Petit Oiseau to leave the keys to the delivery truck with Charlie, they were finally on State Route 7, bound for DC.

“Seriously?” Dean said.

Castiel shrugged. “Have you ever been to one?”

“No.”

“Never been curious?”

“Never,” Dean said tersely. “Not my scene. I’m more of a dingy, shady pool hall kind of guy.”

“Hmm. To be honest, I’ve never been much for nightlife in general. Maybe part of it was having Jack so young. Or maybe it’s my personality, I don’t know.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I used to spend every Friday night in one of Winchester’s premium dives back when my dad was still around.” Dean flipped his blinker on and glanced up at the mirror. “Thing is, I never really had the urge to go out and grind up against a bunch of sweaty random dudes.”

“I doubt Daddy would’ve approved.”

“That wasn’t why. Not everything’s about my daddy issues, Cass.”

“Apologies.” Castiel cracked his window to the warm evening air. “Well, let’s get dinner in Dupont Circle and walk around afterward, at least. It’s not as gay as it used to be, but there’s still history there. We’ll be among our people.”

“‘Our people?’” Dean scoffed.

“Yeah. Too bad Pride was last weekend. I don’t go every year anymore, but it would’ve been nice to take you to your first.”

“Cass.” Dean flexed his fingers around the steering wheel. “Slow down.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I just don’t see why we have to, you know. Strap on rainbow flags or whatever. Let’s just act normal.”

“‘Normal?’”

Dean winced. “That came out wrong. I mean—let’s go out to dinner somewhere because the food’s good, not because it’s in a gay area. I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Fine,” Castiel huffed. “We’ll find someplace ‘normal’ when we get there.”

They drove in silence for several miles. Tom Petty faded out on the Winchester classic rock station, replaced by Eric Clapton. The signal was already starting to fuzz.

“Cass?”

Castiel grunted. At some point in the intervening minutes, he’d rested his head against his window, and he didn’t bother rising from it now.

“You mad at me?”

“No,” Castiel sighed. “I mean, a little, honestly. But I know you didn’t mean to be abrasive.”

Dean grinned at him. “Hey, if you wanted someone who’s always politically correct, you should’ve gone for Sam.”

“It’s not that.” Castiel sat up and crossed his arms. “It just seemed like you’re…ashamed. Of me; of us. That’s kind of what your comments sounded like.”

“I’m not, Cass. Come on. I talk about you all the time on my blog. We do videos together every couple days. You’ve met my family, my friends. Ashamed? What the hell are you talking about, man?”

“Then why do you care so much where we go to dinner?” Castiel clenched his jaw. “‘Normal,’ right.”

“I already said I didn’t mean it that way.” Dean turned off the radio with a violent flick of his wrist. “You know what, just take me wherever you want. Not like I’d know where to go, anyway.”

Castiel didn’t respond to that; Dean didn’t expect him to. He knew him well enough by now to know that he only cared about getting his way when he could bring Dean with him willingly.

After a few minutes, Castiel reached for the radio.

“May I?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Castiel twisted the dial, landed on a country twang. He withdrew his hand.

“Oh, this song. ‘Butterflies.’”

“Surprised how much country stuff you like.”

“I love this whole album. It’s so sweet.” Castiel turned to him. “Besides, you’re my country boy. And you give me butterflies.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Castiel reached across the front seat and lay his hand on Dean’s thigh.

“I don’t want to fight, Dean.”

“You think I want to?”

“No, I don’t. I think neither of us is communicating very effectively right now, that’s all.”

Dean smiled at the highway. “So, you’re saying we’re just a couple of dumbasses?”

“Sure.” Castiel laughed as he pulled out his phone. “Let’s just go someplace in walking distance to my apartment. We can always see more of the city another time. To be fair, the whole district’s pretty gay at this point. We’re taking over.”

“Well, I, for one, welcome our new gay overlords.”

“You better.” Castiel stopped scrolling. “Oh, there’s an Afghan restaurant in Woodley Park I’ve ordered from a couple times. We could walk through the zoo to get there.”

“Sounds good. Don’t think I’ve ever had Afghan food. Might give me some inspiration.” Dean turned up the radio. “Alright, I admit it. I like this song.”

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When they pulled up in front of Castiel’s house, Dean noted the light in the basement window.

“Guess Yuri’s home,” Castiel said. “He usually goes to the comedy club on Friday night to watch the headliners.”

“Think I should meet him?”

“That’s unavoidable. Once he hears footsteps, he’ll want to come up and say hello. I’m not usually out of town this much.”

Dean followed Castiel up the stone walkway, admiring the intricate brickwork of the rowhouses and the graceful maples and beeches standing sentinel before them. He tapped the angel statue on the head as they passed.

“Welcome,” Castiel said, holding the door open for him.

“It’s nice in here.” Dean unlaced his boots. “Bigger than it looks from the outside.”

“It’s more space than I need.” Castiel dropped his keys into a carved rosewood bowl on the sideboard. “Nice to have when Jack visits, though.”

“Yeah.” Dean kicked off his second boot. “Okay, should we—”

He was cut off by Castiel leaning forward and planting a kiss on his lips. After the initial disorientation, Dean returned it, slipping his arms around Castiel’s waist as he did so.

“What was that for?”

“Just wanted that to be the first thing we do under my roof.”

Dean nudged down to kiss him again. “You dork.”

Castiel poured them each a glass of water in the kitchen. They went out to the high-fenced backyard to relax, Dean only settling down into the patio chair next to Castiel once he’d surveyed the few plants that were growing in the raised beds.

“I’ll have to spend a day or two whipping your garden into shape,” Dean grumbled. “It’s sad.”

“As long as I can take care of it when I’m here on my own.” Castiel sipped his water. “I suppose once fall semester rolls around, I’ll have to be here most of the time.”

“Huh. Yeah, I guess so.”

Dean stared down at the sunset in his glass as a pregnant silence settled between them. Eventually, they were interrupted by the scraping of the screen door.

“Castiel? Oh. Hello.”

“Hello, Yuri.” Castiel motioned to his right. “This is Dean. Dean, Yuri.”

Dean stood up to shake his hand. They were the same height, but Yuri had at least twenty extra pounds of muscle on him. He wore a crisp navy suit and a serious, even solemn, expression. Dean didn’t think he looked particularly funny.

“Are you heading to the improv?”

“Yeah, I was just about to leave.” Yuri beamed. “Can I test some of what I’ve got for next week while I have you here?”

“Uh.” Castiel glanced at Dean with transparent desperation in his eyes. “Of course.”

“Okay.” Yuri cleared his throat. “You know, these days, I swear there’s something new to try at the grocery store every time I go. There’s kombucha, right? Everyone loves kombucha in DC. And kefir? Who here likes kefir?”

Dean and Castiel exchanged a look.

“Oh, I see a hand in the back. Point is, there’s all kinds of neat stuff. I was shopping at Whole Foods last week when I saw a package of something called seitan. Even stopped to take a look at it, you know—I’m always looking for fresh recipes to try. Long story short, I didn’t end up getting it. But the instant I turn around, there’s this guy right behind me, asking me if I was looking for seitan. And I say—” Yuri began pacing on the garden’s flat stones, swinging his arms to emphasize each sentence. “I say, ‘well, I wasn’t _looking_ for seitan. You know, I kind of just stumbled onto seitan and realized I might be a little seitan-curious.’”

Yuri paused—for laughter, Dean assumed.

“And then the guy goes, ‘hang on a minute. This is worse than I thought. You’re lucky I got here when I did.’ By now, I’m kind of weirded out, right? I mean, who’s he to ask me personal questions about meat replacement products? So I start walking off with my cart, I mean, we’ve got all sorts of characters in DC and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I get to the end of the aisle and he shouts: ‘Lucifer is no friend of ours!’”

He stopped abruptly and waited for their reaction. Dean chuckled—though not for what he assumed was the intended reason—and Castiel gave a tepid laugh.

“A little bit of editing,” Castiel said. His pocket started buzzing against the wooden patio chair. “The punchline could be snappier. But you have time before Wednesday. I have to take this, sorry.”

Castiel strode to the screen door. Dean gave him a pleading look, but Castiel just gestured back to Yuri.

“Um.” Dean scratched his cheek. “You been doing stand-up for a while?”

“Only a few years. Started in college. I think it’s the hardest of all the art forms sometimes.”

“Huh. Yeah, I can see that.”

Dean crossed his legs. He could hear Castiel’s bass rumbling somewhere within the house, though he couldn’t make out most of the words.

“Have you, uh, known Cass long?”

“Oh, yeah. He and my older sister went to Bowdoin together. I’m lucky he’s renting out the basement apartment to me. I don’t know if I could afford it here otherwise.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, that’s Cass alright. Always there to help a friend.”

“How about you?”

“Me? Oh.” Dean glanced over his shoulder at the house. “No, we only met a couple months ago.”

“Ah.” Yuri’s eyes focused on Dean with sudden shrewdness. “Well, he likes you. I can tell.”

Dean blinked. Obviously, nothing got past this guy.

“Really?”

“Just from how he talks about you. And how he looks at you.”

“Well….” Dean shifted in his seat. “That’s good.”

“I hope you’re treating him well,” Yuri continued, his voice lower now. “His last boyfriend was a jerk who only cared about his money.”

“Uh.” Dean coughed. “Well, that’s the furthest thing from my mind. I couldn’t care less about his money.”

They both turned to the sound of the door. Castiel hopped down the steps, plainly oblivious to what Dean and Yuri had been discussing.

“That was Bartholomew.” Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “He wanted to check in.”

Yuri sighed. “Alright, I should get going. Don’t want to miss the opening act. Nice meeting you, Dean.”

They waved goodbye; Yuri exited through the back gate. Castiel squeezed Dean’s shoulder.

“What’d you guys talk about?”

“Oh, shooting the shit, mainly.” Dean pulled Castiel into his lap. “What’d Bart want?”

“Just making sure things are copacetic on our end. I told him we have the funds, copies of the paperwork, all that. He’s downright personable when Father gets involved.”

Dean kissed his neck. “Thanks for taking care of it, angel.”

Castiel hummed in response. He checked his watch.

“Should we start walking to dinner?”

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Dean did, indeed, find inspiration in some of the dishes at the restaurant, though he told Castiel he’d have to buy a cookbook by an authority on Afghan cuisine and try dozens of recipes from it before he even attempted to come up with something derivative on his own. After dinner, they took the Red Line to a coffeehouse for dessert and sherry. Castiel actually let him pay for that.

It was past midnight when they got home, though with the entire city ablaze in lights, Dean thought he could still see as clear as day. He washed up for bed first and milled around in Castiel’s office while he waited for him. Jack’s drawings were arranged on the wall in rough chronological order, from crayon-on-paper signed with “JACK” to charcoal landscapes initialed “JK,” along with the year.

Dean had moved on to Castiel’s bookshelves when he heard the bathroom door.

“Oh.” Castiel peeked around the office’s doorframe, swiping a towel through his hair. “Looking for a book to read before bed? I can recommend something.”

“Just browsing.” Dean pointed to a slim volume near the end of the shelf. “Hey, Charlie mentioned this name.”

Castiel joined his side. “Oh, Alan Turing. The father of modern computing. Also pivotal in the Allied victory over the Axis powers, via codebreaking of Enigma. Also, a gay man.”

“Huh.” Dean turned to him. “Our people?”

Castiel smiled softly. He rested his head on Dean’s shoulder.

“I wasn’t trying to push you before. I was just excited to show you around.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean plucked the biography of Turing from the shelf, kissed Castiel’s damp hair. “Come on. I’ll read up on this guy and show off my knowledge to Charlie the next time I see her.”

In the morning, Dean was surprised to wake up second. Castiel was sitting against the headboard, thumbing through his phone and chewing his lip.

“Morning, angel.”

Castiel patted Dean absently. “Morning, handsome.”

“You’re up early. What’re you looking at?”

“Just doing some emails, handling some staging.” Castiel turned to him. “When’d you go to sleep? I think you were still reading when I dozed off.”

“Around three.”

“Wow.”

“I just got so into his story. The guy was like, a literal computer. Maybe that’s why he invented them. Sort of.”

“Hmm.” Castiel typed on his phone. “Sorry, I’m listening. Just putting out little fires.”

Dean pulled the comforter up to his neck; the house’s air conditioning was raising goose bumps over his bare chest.

“When’re we going down there?” Dean said.

“Let’s leave around 9:15. That way, we’ll have time to stop at the bakery for a quick breakfast.”

“Is that the one you got that pie from?”

“Yeah, that one.” Castiel put his phone to the side. “You don’t have to come if you don’t feel like standing in the hot sun, you know. You already have to do that every day for your job.”

Dean shrugged. “What else am I going to do?”

“Hang out here. Read. Watch TV. Be lazy. You don’t have to go just because I’m going, is what I’m saying.”

“Nah. I can do all that stuff at home.” Dean snuggled closer to him under the duvet. “Besides, I want to see what one of your protests is like when I’m not drenched like a wet dog for the entire thing.”

A wistful smile flickered across Castiel’s lips. He shook his head as he gazed out the bay window.

“That feels like so long ago.”

“I know, it’s crazy.” Dean snorted. “Remember how I kept repeating I was straight the whole time?”

“I was trying not to bring that up.”

“Well, everything worked out.” Dean stretched his arms to the ceiling. “Damn, I can go directly from bed to the shower today. This is the life.”

The choreography of the protest was different this time, with the crowd gathering at a park a few blocks to the northeast of Lafayette Square before moving down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House. As Dean had expected, the clear, breezy weather and the June date yielded a turnout at least four times the size of the previous protest. Castiel used the same _Resign_ sign he’d carried the last time, claiming that it got across everything he wanted to say. From time to time, in the jostling of the demonstration, Castiel introduced Dean to other activists, though each acquaintance was fleeting. In the hubbub, it was hard for Dean to keep track of their names and even their faces.

“Everything alright?” Castiel said.

They were having lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant with a half-dozen of Castiel’s friends, though they’d had to disperse across the available space in the outdoor dining area. To Dean’s relief, he and Castiel had a table to themselves.

“Yeah. It’s just—you know a lot of people. I’m having trouble keeping track.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Castiel crunched into his banh mi. “If you forget someone’s name, just call them comrade.”

“Funny.”

Castiel nodded to Dean’s phone. “Did Sam’s plane leave?”

“Oh, yeah. He texted they were taking off while you were talking to…” Dean angled his head to an adjacent table. “Blue-haired chick.”

“Duma.”

“Right.”

“It’s too bad,” Castiel said. “We’re passing like ships in the night. We’ll see him tomorrow, though.”

“Yeah.” Dean squirted more chili sauce into his bowl of cold noodles. “He’ll say yes, Cass.”

“I hope so. And if not?” Castiel tilted his head. “Oh well. You can just meet my family another time. It doesn’t change anything between you and me.”

They had enough time after lunch for a walk through the National Portrait Gallery; Castiel said that they’d have to get to all the museums eventually. Dean was able to identify each of the flowers in the background of _President Barack Obama_ on sight, which made him prouder than it maybe should have.

By six, they were back at the farm—or “Bunker Hill, Winchester,” as was written on the form they’d sent off to the northern Virginia regional office, and as Castiel had taken to sometimes calling it.

“We should just call this place ‘The Bunker,’” Castiel said. He plopped onto the couch and opened his laptop.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “And…why would we do that?”

“It makes us sound like survivalists living underground. Waiting for the world to end. Or maybe trying to keep it from ending. Heroic. Romantic. Possibly tragic.”

“I think you’ve been watching too much stuff from the sci-fi corner of Netflix.” Dean sat back from his keyboard and groaned. “Cass, there’re too many comments. I can’t keep up.”

“You won’t be able to from now on. Just accept it. And then, let it go.”

“Be like Elsa?”

Castiel murmured something indistinct. He was already absorbed in the mess of document windows on his screen.

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“Okay, what’s up with you two?”

Dean and Castiel glanced at each other. It was Sunday evening, and a suntanned, shorts-wearing Sam was peering at them owlishly from the other side of the kitchen island.

“Uh.” Dean pulled off his oven mitts. “What?”

“You’re both acting weird. Did you get into a fight or something? Is something wrong with the farm?”

“No,” they said in unison.

“What’s with all the special treatment, then? Making me three of my favorite meals? I can’t eat all this, Dean.”

“You can take it back with you,” Dean mumbled.

“And Cass—” Sam held up the bow-tied box of truffles. “Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but it’s a little strange to get chocolates from my brother’s boyfriend for no reason.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Must I have a reason?”

“Here.” Dean tipped the Cabernet Sauvignon over Sam’s glass. “Have some more wine.”

“You never say I should have more wine! You’re freaking me out, Dean, seriously.”

“Okay.” Castiel cleared his throat. “The truth is, there is something.”

“We—I—” Dean looked down at his hands. “Need to ask you for a favor.”

“Uh-huh. Just spit it out, Dean.”

“Cass’s Dad invited me to come up to Maine.”

“Our family gathering,” Castiel added. “In the second week of August.”

“But I can’t just leave the farm. I mean, you know that. August is crunch time.”

“So, we were wondering—”

“I mean, if you can get the time off to manage the farm.” Dean met Sam’s eyes. “Even a few days—”

“Jesus, Dean.” Sam shook his head. “You too, Cass. All of this? You could’ve just texted me and I would’ve said yes.”

“Seriously?” Dean swallowed. “I mean, thanks, Sammy. It means a lot to me. Us.”

“Dean, I tell you every month to let me know if you need help. You think I do that just because I like hearing my own voice?”

“Uh.” Dean smirked at the smorgasbord of Sam’s favorite dishes between them. “No comment.”

They worked out the details over dinner—pear, walnut, and goat cheese salad; baked macaroni and cheese with beet greens; and sweet and crispy sesame tofu. The courses didn’t go together very well, but Dean figured he’d pack them up in Tupperwares and let Sam figure it out over the course of the following week.

The conversation meandered between the farm’s current operations, Jess and Eileen, Charles Shurley’s body of work, and the property’s historic registry candidacy. By the end of the evening, Dean realized that his brother wasn’t doing this for them out of obligation. He actually seemed happy to be needed. Dean could certainly understand that.

“That went well,” Castiel said, as they watched Sam’s headlights disappear down the hill. “Your brother’s such a sweetheart.”

Dean fluttered his lips. “No idea when that happened. He used to be a spoiled brat.”

“And who spoiled him?”

“Hey, I never said I was perfect either.”

The rest of June passed in an easy rhythm. The strawberries were exhausted by Friday of the following week, which was just as well since most of the other berries were coming into their own. Dean’s channel crossed 70,000 subscribers by the end of the month, finally surpassing Castiel’s Instagram followers a few days before. They recognized the occasion with a bottle of champagne and a quip from Dean about how he was on top now, for which Castiel got him back later in the night.

For his part, Castiel reached a breakthrough in his dissertation that visibly buoyed his spirits. When Dean stopped into the library to kiss him at the end of each workday, he was smiling more often than grimacing, and he seemed less preoccupied in the evenings in general. He was waking up earlier, too, though he drew the line at rolling out of bed before ten. Dean counted that as a victory.

At least part of his good mood, though, was due to Jack. He was at a summer school for the arts in California, and, being far from home, was calling Castiel every few nights to check in. Dean would sit with his hot toddy and listen to Castiel’s side of the conversation, which mostly consisted of long paragraphs of advice that explored multiple points of view, yet reached no firm conclusions. Even after two weeks of this, Dean couldn’t get over it. His father had been of the opinion that boys needed structure and discipline, and their conversations had been almost entirely him barking orders and Dean confirming that he’d understood them. He found himself wondering more than once, as he waited patiently with his thigh touching Castiel’s, what it would’ve been like to have a father like him.

The last day of June was a Sunday, and Sam brought up Eileen over dinner.

“You finally decided, then?” Dean said.

“Jess is happy where she is; so am I.” Sam shrugged with his fork and knife in hand, looking uncannily like a little kid again. “Besides, I really like Eileen.”

“Uh-huh. So, I finally get to meet her?”

“Yeah, she’s excited to see this place. I must talk about it a lot. I’ll bring her along for the Fourth, if that’s okay.”

“Dean won’t stop talking about how he’s going to fire up the grill and finally put ‘real burgers’ on it.” Castiel poured more wine into Dean’s glass. “No one’s stopping him from cooking said burgers on any given night.”

“Your frowny face whenever I cook meat is stopping me.” Dean lifted his wine. “Thanks, angel.”

Sam chuckled. “You know, she follows you guys. I think she’s more of a…what’s the term? ‘Cass girl?’”

“Good taste,” Dean said. “I like her already.”

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On Thursday, Dean ran into town for a few last-minute ingredients while Castiel cleaned the house. When he got back, the floors were sparkling and Castiel was on the deck, doing shirtless yoga. Dean laid out the ingredients for his recipe on the table by the grill and checked the briquettes.

“You trying to distract me or something?”

“It’s too hot for clothes.” Castiel threw a skeptical glance at the grill. “I can’t believe you’re about to stand in front of a roaring fire for however long all that food takes.”

“It’s not that bad.” Dean grinned back at him. “You going to shoot the video like that? Because if so, I think we’ll clear 100k tonight, easy.”

“How eager you are to leverage my body for social media followers.”

“Just asking. You might want to make sure the camera angle’s, you know, waist up when it’s on me.”

Castiel thrust up into a backbend. Dean nearly dropped the ear of corn in his hand.

“Why so bashful?” Castiel replied. “I think a conspicuous bulge in your jeans would be good for at least another 20k followers. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, yeah.”

“What’re you making? Need help with anything?”

“Grilled succotash. Just prepping it right now.”

“Oh. We used to have that at Thanksgiving some years.”

“Yeah, I read that it’s part of a New England Thanksgiving for some people. And that Native Americans introduced it to the colonists?” Dean finished shucking the corn and tossed the refuse into the compost bin. “You know, it’s pretty awesome how much you learn about people, places, history—all that stuff—when you learn about food.”

“‘Dis-moi ce que tu manges: je te dirai ce que tu es.’” Castiel released the backbend, his spine going neutral again. “‘Tell me what you eat; I will tell you what you are.’”

“Goddamn.” Dean lifted up his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Waist up, definitely. You’re so fucking hot, Cass.”

“In the literal sense right now. I need some ice water before we start filming.”

Half an hour later, all the ingredients were ready, and Castiel had prevailed on Dean to move the grill to a shady spot on the deck. He’d also—mercifully—donned a T-shirt and brought out the pitcher of berry lemonade Dean had made that morning.

“Hey everyone.” They both waved to the camera. “Like us, a lot of you might be grilling today.”

“That’s right,” Castiel said. “You know, the Fourth of July is about our independence from Great Britain, but it’s just as much about standing under the sweltering sun, in front of a blazing fire, leaking from pores you didn't even know existed.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “He won’t stop complaining about being outside. Such an indoor boy.”

Castiel elbowed him. “Just tell them about the recipe. They’re not watching for your jokes.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean indicated the spread of vegetables next to the grill. “We’re making grilled succotash. It’s primarily a dish of corn and beans with whatever other seasonal vegetables you have on hand. Usually, people cook it on the stovetop, but this grilled version gives it a ton of smoky, toasty, roasty flavor. Plus, you know. Fourth of July.”

Dean explained more of the history and preparation of the dish before moving on to the grilling. The grill—one of the small number of additions John had made to Bunker Hill—was large enough to fit all the vegetables at once, though Dean emphasized the different cook times of corn, bell peppers, and tomatoes.

Sam and Eileen arrived while they were still filming. They hovered briefly behind the French doors to the living room before retreating from view. Once the video wrapped, Dean carried in the bowl of succotash and Castiel brought in the camera and tripod.

“Wonder where they went.” Dean looked up at the stairs as he and Castiel made their way to the kitchen. “Sammy!”

“Yeah!”

“We’re done. Uh, just so you know.”

Sam and Eileen descended the staircase a minute or two later. Dean and Castiel looked up from the island, where Dean had been needling Castiel about not getting a clear enough shot of the spices.

“Guys, this is Eileen.” Sam had his arm around her. “Eileen, my brother, Dean, and Cass, his boyfriend.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” Dean said.

“A pleasure,” Castiel said.

Eileen gestured to the ceiling. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Dean turned to Castiel. “This guy said the same thing the first day he was here.”

“I’m pretty sure I still say it.” Castiel stood up and made his way to the opposite corner of the island, where they’d set up the beverages earlier in the day. “Something to drink? There’s homemade lemonade, beer, white or red….”

They spent most of the next hour getting acquainted. Eileen worked on corporate takeovers in some fashion, which Dean could tell made Castiel uneasy, though he didn’t let on. Instead, he focused on the personal—how Sam and Eileen had met, what they liked to do around DC, the travel destinations he and Eileen had in common. It was amazing how strict of a filter he could have when he actually tried.

“So,” Dean said. He and Castiel were at the grill, starting on the rest of the cooking; Sam had taken Eileen on a walk around the property. “She seems nice.”

“Mhm.” Castiel stroked Dean’s back. “She’s definitely a Cass girl.”

Dean snorted. “That was pretty obvious.”

“A good teacher, too. Did you see how many signs Sam knows already?”

“She's definitely a better teacher than you. How come I don't know any French yet?”

“You know a few words. I heard you use them last night.”

“Uh.” Dean rubbed his ear as he laid the first all-American grass-fed beef patty on the grill. “I was talking about French I can use in front of my brother.”

“Well, you should've specified.” Castiel backed away from the loud sizzling. “You’re not going to let my veggie burgers touch your…hunks of dead animal, are you?”

“No, Cass. I’ve got a special side of the grill just for you and Sam. Even got separate utensils.” Dean kissed his cheek. “You know I wouldn’t forget that.”

Castiel leaned into the kiss. His body went abruptly still, and he drew in a sharp breath.

“I love you,” he said.

Dean turned to him in time to see his Adam’s apple bob. He stared down at the charcoal, awaiting Dean’s judgment. Somehow, it seemed entirely expected that Castiel would say that to him for the first time when they were in the middle of something tiny and mundane; something they’d done dozens of times before. Dean cooking their food separately without needing to be asked was, he supposed, one of those small acts of kindness that Castiel had called the highest expression of love on their first day together.

“You…don’t have to say it back. Don’t feel like—”

“You dumbass.” Dean dropped his metal tongs to the table and pulled Castiel into his arms. “You’re so ridiculous.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Huh?”

Dean nuzzled Castiel’s nose, kissed his lemonade-tinged lips. A breeze blew in from the hollow, tinkling the wind chimes and carrying Sam and Eileen’s laughter up to them from somewhere in the near distance.

“Goddammit, Cass. Of course I love you.”

🌽🍅🥦🌶🥔🍆🥕🥬🥒🍓🥑

Grilled Succotash

_Succotash is a versatile dish indigenous to the Americas; it’s also part of Thanksgiving in some parts of the U.S. In my opinion, it’s best in the summer, when its key ingredients—corn and runner beans—are at their peak._

_Typically, succotash is boiled or stewed, but I think grilling gives it a superior flavor. It also gives you an excuse to fire up the grill, which is pretty much a win-win._

_Even if certain indoor boys don’t think so._

Cook time: 30 minutes

Serves 4

4 ears of corn

2 15-ounce cans lima or black beans, drained and rinsed thoroughly, or an equivalent amount of cooked fresh or dry beans*

3 red bell peppers

1 pound ripe tomatoes

2 avocados, diced

1½ tablespoons fruit, sherry, or white wine vinegar**

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

½ teaspoon ground chipotle

½ teaspoon smoked paprika

½ teaspoon freshly ground pepper

½ teaspoon salt

1/3 cup chopped cilantro

The first step is roasting the corn, bell peppers, and tomatoes on your grill. I won’t be able to help you too much in terms of exact times—that’s entirely a product of the type of grill you have, how much heat it’s producing, etc. The main thing here is being attentive to the vegetables—you want a little charring, but not a completely blackened and burned husk. In general, the tomatoes will finish first, and you can get away with a little more color on the peppers than the corn because you’re removing their skins later.

Once the grilling is done, place the peppers in a lidded pot so they sweat and let the corn and tomatoes cool. Add the beans and avocados to your serving bowl and whisk together the vinegar, oil, and spices in a separate bowl. Dice the tomatoes into pieces roughly the same size as your avocado cubes (a serrated knife can be helpful here) and add to the serving bowl. When the corn is cool enough to handle, slice the kernels from the cob and add to your serving bowl.

By now, your peppers should be cooler and ready to release their skins. Peel those off, then dice the peppers and add to the rest of the succotash. Pour in the dressing and mix gently; salt to taste. Just before serving, mix in the cilantro, reserving some to garnish the top.

*Chickpeas are also good here, but are less traditional for succotash.

** We used raspberry vinegar, but if you don’t have that, any of the other vinegars I’ve listed will work fine.


End file.
